LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 




i. % 



THE 



NEW ENGLAND COUNTRY 



TEXT AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



BY 



CLIFTON JOHNSON 



OCT XO 1892 



BOSTON --^----^.^y 

LEE AND SHEPARD PUBLISHERS'''^ 

lo Milk Street 
iSq3 






\w^ 



PRESS OF 

Kochbsfll anC iffburciitU 

BOSTON 



Copyright, 1892, nv Cliftox Johnson 



The New England Country 



CONTENTS 



PART I 
Old Times on a New England Farm 

PART II 
The New England of To-day . 

PART III 
New England as the Traveller sees it 



PAGE 
I 



34 



57 



PART IV 
Camping among the New England Hills 82 



f 



s 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 



January .... 

Oi.D Fireplace . 

A Foot-stove . 

Canes and Umbrellas 

The Churn 

Ye Fntraxce of Old Fashion 

Farm Iools 

A Loom .... 

Fans and Back-comb 

Old Chairs 

One of iHE Old Houses 

A Silhouette Portrait 

A River-boat beforf: the Days oi 

Reels .... 

A Comfortable Farm-house 

The Flax-wheel 

February .... 

Kitchen Utensils 

Gourds and Pkhuns 

The Windini; Roadway 

A Mill-yard in the Valley 

A Sunny Glen 

A Quiet Day . 

A Barn-door Group 

A Turn in the Road 

A New England Valley . 

A Hill'I'op Village . 

A Little Lake 

A Village Scene 



Railroads 



PAGE 

Frontispiece 
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0) 

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lO 

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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 



Snow-fields on the Hills 

March ....... 

Cleared Land ...... 

(iATHKKixi; Sap in the Sr(;AR Orchard . 
Wayside Berrn-fickers .... 

A Farm amid ihe Bk; Hills . 

A I.nri.E Home ox iiii-, Hilesidi'. . 

A Stream from the Hills 

A Saw-mill ...... 

A Spring Mornino ..... 

A Willow-lined River .... 

April — One of the Old Village Streets 

A Look down on the (^onneciicut . 

The Spring Hoeing . 

An Old Tavern 

The Friendly (Iuide 

A Hill Town . 

The Back Sheds 

WiN'iER Twilight — Going 

A Hill-town Village 

Homes and Out-buildings 

New England Rocks 

Holding the Horses whit 

OF Water . 
May .... 

A Dam on the Conneciicut 

At 'THE Railroad Station 

On 'THE OuisKiR'is of a Growing Factory \ 

The Railway-crossing in ihe Villa(;e . 

A Stone Bridge ..... 

A Group of Liitle Fishermen 

A Wayside Watering-i rough . 

A Country School wa'tching a Team (;o \\\ 

An Old Buryin(;-(;r()und .... 

Below the Dam ..... 

.\ Massachusetts Mountain 

The Ferryboat ..... 

viii 



up for one .aiore 



BY the \Vayside 



s Father goes 



Slide 



IN T 



ILLAC 



Drink 



PAGE 

i8 

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21 

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26 

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40 

41 
43 
43 
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46 

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49 
50 
51 
51 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 



y 



A Fall on the Connecticut .... 

June ........ 

The Growing Boy in his Last Year's Clothes 
At the Back-do(3r ...... 

The Academy ....... 

A Horse-chestnut Man ..... 

Afterglow ....... 

The Village Church ..... 

One of the Humbler Houses 

A Deserted Home ...... 

Getting a Load of Sawdust hack of the Saw-mill 
A Meadow Stream ...... 

A Home under ihe Elms .... 

A Door-step Group ..... 

A Roadside Friend ..... 

Better than Hoeing on a Hot Day 

July ......... 

The Pet of the Farm ..... 

The Big Barn-door ..... 

The Boy who Mows away .... 

Summer Sunlight in a "Gorge Road". 
One of the Liitle Riyers .... 

The Village GroceryiMan .... 

An Outlying ^TLLAGE ..... 

A Village View in a Half-wooded Dell 
The Old Well-sweep ..... 

In Hayinc; Time ... 

The Stream and the Elms in the Meadow 

Under the Old Sycamore .... 

August ........ 

The Brook in the Woods .... 

The House wiih the Barn across the Road 
A Warm Summer Day ..... 

At Work in her Own Sirawderry Paich . 
September ....... 

Evening ........ 

A Load of Wood on the Way up to the Village 

ix 



52 
53 
55 
55 
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79 

Si 
82 

^Z 
84 

85 
87 
88 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 



A WaIKRKAI.L IX THK W'OODS . 

A Panor^ama ok Hills and Valleys 
A Pasiuke Group . 

OCTOP.ER . 

A Pasture Gate 

A Road hv the Stream 

At the Pasjure Gate 

The Sheep Pasture . 

A Qui El' Pond . 

husking-'ii.me 

Sunlight and Shadow 

November . 

The Villa(;e on the Hill 

A Mill in the Valley . 

Cloud Shadows 

A Loo House .... 

A Farm-yard Group 

On a Mountain Crac; 

One oe the Green Mountain Peaks 

Among the Big Hills 

A Deseriki) Hut in jhe Woods 

Charcoal Kilns 

Rough Uplands 

December ..... 

A Path in the ^^■IN^ER Woods 

Windy Winter — On the Way Hr)ME from School 

X 



PAGE 
89 
90 

93 
95 
96 

97 
98 

99 

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[06 
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OLD FIREPLACE 



PART I 



OLD TIMES ON A NEW ENGLAND FARM 




A BOUT " old times " there 
^*^ always hovers a peculiar 



A FOOT-STOVE 



charm. A dreamlaiul atmos- 
phere overhangs them. The 
present, as we battle along 
through it, seems full of hard, 
dry facts ; but, looking back, 
experience takes on a rosy hue. The sharp edges are 
gone. Even the trials and difficulties which assailed us 
have for the most part lost their power to pain or try 
us, and take on a story-book interest in this mellow 
land of memories. 

To speak of " the good old times " is to gently 
implicate the present, and the mild disapproval of the 
new therein suggested is, from elderly people, to be 
expected. We grow conservative with age. Quiet is 




CANES AND UMBRELLAS 



THE NEIV ENGLAND COUNTRY 



more pleasing than change. The softened outHncs of the 
past have an attraction which the present matter-of-fact 
hurry and work have not, and the times when we were 
young hold peculiar pleasure for our contemplation. To act- 
ually prove by logic and rule that the old times were better 
than the new would not be easy. They had their lacks. 
The world learns and gains man}- things as it ages. It 
is to be hoped that it grows better as it grows older ; but 
even so the past has 
its charm, whether 
one of memories in 
which we ourselves 
were actors, or of sto- 
ry, which shows the 
ent which is the out- 
In writing of 
a definite period in 
truth, but the present 
the phrase is met 
years when the grand- 
mothers then living 





THE CHURN 




FARM TOOLS 



contrast to the pres- 
growth of that past. 
" old times " we have 
mind. .All times, in 
are old, but wherever 
with, it refers to the 
fathers and grand- 
were }'oung. l^ver 
since there were 
grandfathers and 
grandmothers there have been " old times," and 
these times have kept even pace with the age- 
ing of the world, following, shadow-like, the 
accumulating years, and always nearly three- 
quarters of a century behind the present. It 
therefore follows that the " old times " pictured 
in this volume have to do with the early part 
of this century. 

This old life as it ran then in our New 
England farmhouses was the typical American 
life, and was not essentially different from 
country life in any of our Northern States. 
Even with that of the city it had many things 



THE NFW ENGLAND COUNTRY 



in common. The 
much the charac- 
villages, and were 
into the great 
and stone, now fa- 
ness may throng 
noisy streets. Fac- 
vvith their high- ^ 
grimy, crowded J^ 
about, were of the 
But the 
century was the 
Everywhere was 




large places had 
ter of overgrown 
not yet converted 
blocks of brick 
miliar, where busi- 
miles and miles of 
tor}' towns, too, 
walled mills and 
tenements huddling 
future. 

dawn of the new 
herald of change, 
activity. The 



fi/j-t*^ 







country was new, and we had many needs which the Old World did not feel. 

Necessity made us inventors, and ingenuit}- became an American characteristic. 

A long line of towns stretched along the Atlantic coast and occupied an 

occasional interval along the larger 
streams, and houses were beginning 
to appear and hamlets to grow far- 
ther inland. The adventurous were 
l)ushing \\'estward. The heavy canvas- 
topped wagons drawn by the slow- 
.-^-=^"^ moving oxen were trundling along the 

^' road toward the setting sun. Under 

the white arch of canvas were stored 

FANS AND BACK-COMB 

the furniture and household 
supplies of a f^^mily. Behind 
were driven the sheep and 
cattle which should form the 
nucleus of new flocks in the 
new home. 

The century was seven 
years old before Fulton's 
steamer made its trial trip. old chairs 




4 THE NEIV ENGL4ND COUNTRY 

Advantage was tiuickl}' taken of tliis new application of power, and soon 
steam vessels were puffing up and down all the larger rivers and along 
the coast, though a dozen years ela[)sed before one ventured across the 
Atlantic. Railroads were still unthought of. Even wagons were not common 
for some years after the close of the last century. 

There were very few places in the United States whose inhabitants ex- 
ceeded ten thousand in 1800; but the l)uilding of factories shortly commenced, 
and these became the magnets which drew a great tide of life from the 
country and from foreign shores into the cities. The factories gave the death- 




ONE OF THE OLD HOUSES 



blow to the multitude of handicrafts which up to this ti-me had flourished in 
the New England villages. 

The New England town of the period was made up of a group of 
houses about an open common. At least, it started thus. As the town grew, 
a second street or a number of them were laid out parallel or at right angles 
to the first, or houses were erected along the straggling paths which led to 
the surrounding fields; and the paths in time grew to the dignit}' of roads, 
and linked the scattered houses and hamlets to the parent village. The 
central village, where the la}' of the land permitted, was built on a broad 
hilltop, partl}^ as in the case of the older towns, for purposes of defence, 
partly because here the land was less thickly overgrown with trees and 



THE NEW ENGLAND COUNTRY 



5 



underbrush and was more easily cleared. Another reason was that the Old 
World towns were built thus, and the emigrants to this country naturally did 
likewise, even though the Old World life in feudal times which gave reason 



for this was entirely of 
Here was the 
quiet building fronted by 
weather-worn sheds were 
[parishioners living at a 
their horses during ser- 
the tavern, a substantial 
whose sign swung from 
a tree or pole close by. 
four or five little shops 
lines of comfortable two- 
People in general 




y;/wi(iiiii(iiiiiiiiiiiiii!!iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiium\\m?. 

A SILHOUETTE PORTRAIT 



the past. 

meeting - house, a big, 
the spire. A group of 
close behind it, where 
distance might shelter 
vices. Not far away was 
a n d r o o m y building 
the front or dangled from 
Then there would be 
and stores among the 
story dwellings, 
necjlected ornamental 



trees, though there were before this occasionally persons who had set out 
shade trees, and places which had started lines of elms along the village 
streets. About this time Lombardy poplars became fashionable. The poplar 
was a French tree, and was therefore championed by the Jcffersonian Demo- 
crats, who had for France a decided partialit)'. For the most part these 
trees have disappeared. Still, here and there their tall, compact, military 




A RIVER-BOAT BEFORE THE DAYS OF RAILROADS 



forms are seen standing dark and stiff, and with a still lingering air about 
them of foreign strangeness. The appearance of the common or the village 
in general was little thought of. Sidewalks received almost no attention, and 
such paths as there were had been made by the wear of travel. 



THE NEW ENGLAND COUNTRY 




the doorways, 
quite intricate 
ment ; yet they 
less in design, 
pleasing in ef- 
too, the deco- 
doorway was 
ornament of the 
and the cornice 
I'iazzas were 
houses had a 
the entrance. 
The finer resi- 




W'hat fine buildings those 
houses of old times were and still 
are ! — not in the least pretentious, 
but having a certain distinguished 
air of comfort and stability ; no 
suggestion of the dolUhouse which 
so many of our Queen Anne cot- 
tages bring to mind, but withal an 
appearance of quiet and attractive 
dignity. The supreme effort of the 
builder seems to have centred in 
which are often 
in their orna- 
are never reck- 
and are always 
feet. Often, 
ration of the 
echoed in the 
window - frames 
under the eaves, 
rare, but many 
porch b e f o r e 



A COMFORTABLE FAKMHOUSE 



deuces had knockers on the front doors. Door-bells 
came into use a little later. Instead of the mod- 
ern door-knobs, iron latches were used, or in some 
cases wooden ones. If the latch had no thumb- 
piece — and the more primitive ones had not — a 
string was attached and run through a hole bored 
for the purpose just above. The latch was on the 
inside, and there was no way of raising it except 
the latchstring hung out. Locking was readily ac- 
complished by pulling in the string. Some houses 
had wooden buttons on the doors just over the 
latch, which, when turned down, held the latch in 




THE FLAX-WHEEL 



THE NEW ENGLAND COUNTRY 



its notch and thus locked the door. In still other cases doors were locked 
by means of a fork thrust in just above the latch, but for the most part 
doors of buildings, both public and priv^ate, went unlocked 

Houses in town, and the meeting-house as well, were painted red or 



yellow. Many 
cially those be- 
poorcr people 
side the main 
unpaintcd. On 
old buildings 
seen s u e cr e s - 




KITCHEN UTENSILS 



houses, espc- 
longing to the 
and those out- 
village, were 
some of o u r 
may yet be 
tions of these 



former brilliant hues, though sun and storm have been softening the tones 
all through the years, so that only a shadowy tint of the old red or yellow 
still clings to the weather-worn clapboards. Most houses changed color to 
white, when that became the fashion fifty years ago. Blinds of the modern 
pattern were not much used before the century was well begun. In the 



Indian days heavy wood- 
across the window open- 
but after 1750 the Indians 
terror to New England 
The larger w i 1 d 
gethcr gone by this time 
settled. The sheep pas- 
not now in danger from 
Some of the old farmers 




GOURDS AND PIGGINS 



en doors were swung to 
ings to bar the passage, 
were no longer objects of 
people. 

animals were almost alto- 
in the regions longest 
tured on the hills were 
prowling wolves or bears, 
had per h a p s in t h e i r 



younger days heard the dismal cry of the former far off in the woods, per- 
haps had shot a black bear or two, or caught a few in traps ; but now a 
bear, wolf, or wildcat was rarely seen anywhere in the vicinit}- of the older 
towns. Deer had almost disappeared. Wild turkeys could still be shot in 
considerable numbers, and in the fall great flocks of pigeons made their 
flights in sufficient numbers to darken the sky. 

To the boys, that seems the golden age when the Indians lurked in 
the deep woods, when bears and wolves and other wild beasts had to be 
fought with. At such a time who would not be a hero ! Hoeing corn, 
t^iggi'ig potatoes, bringing in wood, milking cows, where is the chance to 
show our talents in these things? The heroes are in the West, the North, 



10 



THE NHIV ENGLAND COUNTRY 



or in tlic Tropics now. These present times are slow and dull, and hold no 
such opportunit)' as had the fathers, for the \'aliant youth to show his 
quality. l^ut this feeling- is a mistaken one. The lives of the fathers were 
many times dull to them; the}' hao much monotonous labor; wild animals 
were nuisances, which caused loss and worr}-; while the Indians L;ave them 
man\' a scare, and awakened little feeling" in the }'ount;ster of that da}- 
be}'ond one of terror. At the time of which I write the pioneer epoch 




was past in New luigland, but many stories of Indians and wild beasts were 
told about the firesides on winter evenings. 

In a country town the coming of the stage-coach was one of the 
events of its daily life. Some places were visited by the coaches once or 
twice a week, others once a day or even oftener. When the lumbering 
coach swept down the village street with crack of whip and blast of horn, 
everybody tried to see it as it rumbled j^ast. Happy was the man or bo}' 
whom business or pleasure called to the tavern when the driver with a 



THE NEIV ENGLAND COUNTRY 



II 




A MILL-YARD IN THE VALLEY 



wore. News was slow in travelling, 
and the papers of the day were 
rather barren o{ the gossipy items 
which the average human being 
craves. This man of the world, 
therefore, who, in his journe\'ings, 
saw and heard so much of which 
his fellowmcn were ignorant, as- 
sumed a magnified importance. 
He always found ready listeners, 
and his opinions had much weight. 
If inclined to be reticent he was 
questioned and coaxed to divulge 
his knowledge of the happenings 
in the outside world with no little 
anxiety. When railroads came, the 
coaches travelled remoter ways. 
Some found a last resting-place 
in backyards, and there amid 
other rubbish, grasses, and weeds 
gradually fell to pieces. Others, 



flourish brought his 
horses to a standstill 
before the door. The 
driver was a very im- 
portant person in the 
eyes of most of the 
villagers, and by none 
was his importance 
more highl}' appreci- 
ated than b)' himself. 
His dignity was made 
the more impressive by 
the hi'di beaver hat he 




A SUNNY GLEN 



12 



THE NFW ENGLAND COUNTRY 



pushed onward by the iron horse, went West, gettini,^ farther and farther 
from their old haunts, till at last the Rocky Mountains were reached. It 




^^^kJ 



i^^ "'"" 



*0f A ^-tt 4ttfit, ^ . .^ ^j ufm^i 



.*/■ ,f. ; 










may be that some of the old New England coaches are still at work in 
those rugged regions. 

Another characteristic vehicle of the times was a long, heavy wagon 
with an arched canvas top and high board sides, drawn b>- from four to 
ten horses, which travelled between Boston ami towns inland, conveying tea, 
coffee, and store goods, and returning with a load of pork, butter, cheese, 
and grain. These wagons were useful when families wished to travel long 
distances. When the railroads began to do their former work the wagons 
were utilized by the emigrants, and finally on the Western plains were given 
the name of " prairie schooners." 

When an inland town was in the neighborhood of a navigable stream 
the heavier supplies, such as sugar, rum, and molasses, were brought up the 
river in big flat-boats. These boats were clumsy, square-ended affairs, w^ith 
a narrow cabin across the stern just high enough for a man to stand up 
in, where were a couple of bunks and a rude stove. A big, square sail 



THE NBIV ENGLAND COUNTRY 



13 



on a thirty-foot mast moved the craft, but when the wind failed it was 
necessary to resort to pohng. The helmsman had his post on the roof of 
the cabin, and he with one other man made up the crew. Sometimes they 
ate their meals on board, sometimes stopped at a village on the banks and 
went to the tavern. When darkness settled down they hitched somewhere 
along shore, but at times, when the wind was fair and the moon bright, 
would sail on all night. 

Post-offices were in the early days far less common than now, and 
postage was expensive, varying in amount with the distance the missive 
travelled. Letters were not stamped, but the sum charged was marked on 
the corner and collected by the postmaster on delivery. Envelopes were 
not in common use till about 1850. Letters were usually written on large- 




A BARN-DOOR GROUP 



sized paper, and as much as possible crowded on a sheet. The sheet was 
dexterously folded so that the only blank space, purposely so left, made the 
front and back of the missive. Then the letter was directed and sealed 
with wax, and was ready for the mail. Towns not favored with a post- 



M 



THE NEIV ENGLAND COUNTRY 






A TURN IN THE RuAD 

office would get their mail by the stage-coach, or, if off the stage routes, 
would send a post-rider i)criodicallN' to the nearest office. As the post-rider 
came jogging back with his saddle-bags full of newspapers and letters, the 




A NEW ENGLAND VALLEY 



sound of his horn which told of his approach was a very pleasant one to 
those within the farm-houses, who always looked forward with eagerness to 
the day which brought the county paper with the news. 



THE NEW ENGLAND COUNTRY 



15 



The out-door farm life of that time was distinguished b\' its long 
hours and the amount of muscle required. The tools were rude and clumsy, 
and the machines which did away with hand labor were very few. From 
seed-time to harvest, work began with the coming of day light in the morn- 
ing, and only ceased when in the evening the gray gloom of night began 
to settle down. 

Up to this time little fencing had been done about the pasture land, 
that being common property on which everybody turned loose their sheep 
and cattle. Many of the creatures wore bells, which tinkled and jingled on 
the hillsides and in the woods from morn till night. But now the towns 
were dividing the " commons " among the property-holders, fences were 




A HILLTOP VILLAGE 



built, and the flocks separated. On rocky land many stone walls were built, 
but in the lowlands the usual fence was made by digging a ditch, and on 
the ridge made by the earth thrown out making a low barrier of rails, 
stakes, and brush. Graduall}' more substantial fences were built, for the 
most part of the zigzag Virginia rail pattern. 

Oxen did most of the heavy farm-work, such as ploughing and 
hauling, and it was not till after 1825 that horses became more gen- 
eral. The common cart which then answered in the place of our two- 
horse wagon was a huge two-wheeled affair having usually a heavy box 
body on the " ex. " But when used in haying, the sides of the box were 
removed and long stakes were substituted. 

In the summer the men were out before sun up, swinging their scythes 
through the dewy grass, and leaving long, wet windrows behind them for the 



i6 



THE NEW ENGLAND COUNTRY 



boys to spread. Mowing, turning, and raking were all done by hand, which 
made the labor of ha\-ing an extended one. In the busiest times the women 
and girls of the family often helped in the fields "tending" hay, or load- 
ing it, or raking after. They helped, too, in harvesting the grain and 
flax, and later in picking up apples in the orchard. They did the milking 




A LITTLE LAKE 



the year round, using clumsy wooden pails, and for a seat, a heav>- three- 
leorrcd stool or a block of wood. The smaller children drove the cows to 
pasture in the morning and brought them back at night, often a distance of 
a mile or two along lonesome roadways or by-paths. 

When the grain ripened, it was reaped by hand with the slender, saw- 
edged sickles. The peas and oats, which were sowed together, had to be 
mowed and gotten in; the flax had to be pulled and rotted; there was hoe- 
ing to be done, and the summer was full of work. In the fall the corn 
had to be cut and husked and the stalks brought in, the pumpkins and 
squashes gathered, potatoes dug, the haying finished, and the apples picked. 
Most farms had large orchards about them, and many barrels of apples were 
stowed away in the cellar, but the larger part was made into cider. There 
would usually be several little cider-mills in a town, whose creaking machinery 
could be heard on many a cool autumn day groaning under its labors. 
The shaking of the apple-trees and carting the fruit to mill, and the taking 



THE NEIV ENGLAND COUNTRY 



17 



copious draughts of the sweet hquid through a straw from the tub tliat 
received it from the press, and then the return with the full barrels — all 
this had more of the frolic in it than real work, particularly for the boys. 
The sweet apples, in large part, were run through the mill by themselves, 
and the cider was boiled down at home into a thick fluid known as apple- 
molasses, used for sweetening pies, sauce, and puddings. When harvesting 
was done, the cellar was full of vegetables in barrels and bins and heaps, and 
heavy casks of cider lined the walls, and little space was left for passageways. 
Even in broad daylight it was a place mysterious, gloomy, and dungeon-like; 
yet its very fulness which made it thus was suggestive of good cheer. 

Winter, too, brought plenty of work, but it was not so arduous and 
lonsz-continued as that of summer. There was the stock to feed and water 




A VILLAGE SCENE 



and keep comfortable; the threshing to do; trees must be felled in the 
woods and sledded to the home yard, there to be worked up into fireplace 
length; tools needed mending; there was the flax to attend to, and, if new 
fencing was to be done in the spring, rails must be split. 



1 8 THE NEIV ENGLAND COUNTRY 

Grain was threshed out with hand-flails on the barn floor. On many 
days of earh' winter and from many a group of farm buildings the rhythmic 
beat of the flails sounded clear on the frosty air as straw and grain parted 
company. When it was necessary to go to mill, the farmer filled a couple 
of l)ags, fastened them across the back of his horse, mounted in front, and 
trotted olT to get it ground, or perhaps his wife or one of the children 
mounted instead and tiid the errand. The grist-mill was in some hollow 
where the water paused abo\'e in a sleei))- pond, and then, having turned the 




SNOW-FIELDS ON THE HILLS 



great slow-revolving wooden wlieel against the side of the mill, tumbled noisily 
on down the ravine. 

In the earliest days of spring, if the farm had a maple orchard within 
its Ijorders, there were trees to tap, and sap to gather and boil down. The 
snow still la\- deep in the woods where the maples grew, and the sap-gathering 
was done with an ox-sled on which was set a huge cask. In some sheltered 
nook of the woods a big kettle was swung over an open-air fire, and the 
boiling-down process commenced. 

Not much farm produce was sold for money; the people raised and 
made much more of what they ate and wore than at present, and exchanged 
with neighbors and the village storekeeper whatever they had a surplus of 



THE NEIV ENGLAND COUNTRY 



21 



for things which they lacked. Even the minister and doctor were paid in 
part with wood, grain, and other produce. At the beginning of the century 
accounts were kept in pounds, shillings, and pence, and the money in use 
was of foreign coinage, mainly English and Spanish. 

The kitchen was the centre of family life. Here a vast amount of 
work was done. Here they ate, spent their evenings, and commonly received 
visitors. Often it served as a sleeping-room besides. Its size was ample, 
though the ceiling was low and pretty sure to be crossed by a ponderous 
beam of the framework of the house, the lower half projecting from the 
plastering above. A few straight-backed chairs sat stiffly up against the 
wainscoted wall, and seemed to have an air of reserve that would change 
to surprise if one ventured to move or use them. There stood the dresser. 




CLEARED LAND 



with bright array of pewter, a small table, a bed turned up against the wall 
and hidden by curtains, a cradle, a stand, a great high-backed settle, and 
lastly, extending almost across one end of the room, was the most important 
feature of the kitchen, the fireplace. 

Let us take an early morning look into one of these old kitchens. 
Dusky shadows still linger; we cannot make objects out clearly; one or two 



22 



THE NHIV ENGLAND COUNTRY 



coals are glowini:^ in the cavernous mouth of the fireplace, and a wisp of 
smoke steals upward and is lost in the i^loomy chimney. It is late in the 
fall. When winter really sets in, the turned- up bed will come into use. 
Somcbod}' is movin"- about in the bedroom, and now the door is opened and 
the man of the house, in frowzled head, comes from the slce[)ing-room. He 
is in his shirt-sleeves, and the heels of his big slippers clatter on the floor 
as he shuffles across to the fireplace. He is a smooth-faced, middle-aged 




GATHERING SAP IN THE SUGAR ORCHARD 



man, vigorous, but slow- moving, and bent by hard work. He pokes away 
the ashes, throws on the coals a few sticks from a pile of three-foot wood 
on the floor close by, and in a few moments there is a fine blaze and crackle. 
The room is chilly, and the man rubs his hands together, stooping forward 
to catch the warmth from the fire. A scratching is heard on the outside 
tloor. He shufties over and opens it. The cat glides in and rubs against 
him gratefully as she goes over to the fireplace, where she seats herself on 
the hearth and proceeds to make an elaborate toilet. 

The man kicks off his slippers and pulls on a pair of stiff, heavy 
boots. He takes his coat from a peg by the fireplace, puts it on and his cap, 
and goes out. Every footstep falls clear and distinct on the frozen ground. 



THE NEW ENGLAND COUNTRY 



23 



The bi- arm of the well-sweep in the yard creaks as he lowers tlie bucket 
for water. Soon he returns with a brimming pail, fills the iron tea-kettle, 
then goes out again. 

The kettle, suspended from the crane, seems quite shocked by this 
deluge of cold water. It swings in nervous motion on its pot-hook and shakes 



'// 



%^ 

















1 / 







WAYSIDE BERRY-PICKERS 



from its black sides the water-drops, which fall with a quick hiss of protest 
uito the fire. The heat below waxes greater, and the cat moves to a cooler 
position. 

It is lighter now. The tea-kettle recovers from its ill-humor, and, half 
asleep, smgs through its nose a droning song of contentment and sends up 
the chimney quite a little cloud of steam. Now the woman of the family 



24 



THE NFW ENGLAND COUNTRY 



has appeared and bustles about gettin^^" breakfast. She calls the children at 
the chamber door. Down they come, and crowd about the fire or scrub 
themselves in the wash-basin on the table. Grandfather is up, and he and 
the older boys go out-doors. Grandma helps the smaller children fasten 
their clothes and wash their faces, and assists about the housework. 

Some of the older girls, perhaps grandma or the mother also, soon take 
their wooden pails and go to the barn to milk the cows. When the}- returned, 




A FARM AMID THE BIG HILLS 



they strained the milk through cloths held over the tops of the pails into 
the brown earthen pans, and then were ready to help with the breakfast 
preparations. A second kettle has been hung from the crane, in which 
potatoes are boiling. Coals have been raked out on the hearth, and over 
them is set a long-legged spider on which slices of pork are sizzling. 

By the time breakfast was ready, the men, by reason of their open-air 
exercise, had appetites which nought but very hearty food could appease. 
Before they sat down to eat, the family gathered about the table and stood 
while the head of the family asked a blessing. Then the older ones seated 
themselves, while the children went to a small second table at one side, about 



THE NEW ENGLAND COUNTRY 



25 



which they stood and ate, trotting over to the main table when they wished 
to replenish their plates. 

Many families had cider on the table to drink at every meal. Other 



people would 
sometimes tea, 
t e r was not 
cept for Com- 
er to such an 
present. Coffee 
with molasses 
so accustomed 
come to this, 




A LITTLE HOME ON THE HILLSIDE 



have coffee or 
though the lat- 
much used ex- 
pan\', and neith- 
extent as at 
was sweetened 
ordinarily, and 
did palates be- 
that when suijar 



came into more general use, it was considered by many a very poor sub- 
stitute 

Breakfast eaten, the household gathered about the main table once 
more and stood while thanks were returned. Then followed famil}- worship. 
It was customary to read the l^ible from beginning to end, — a chapter each 
morning, — all the famil}' i-eading verses in turn; and then, if they were musical, 
a hymn was sung. T.astly, all knelt while prayer was offered. 




A STREAM FROM THE HILLS 



Work now began again. The men left to take up their labor out of 
doors, while the women busied themselves in the house with their varied 
tasks. As the morning wore away, preparation began for dinner. What 



26 



THR NFW ENGLAND COUNTRY 



was known as a "boiled dinner" was most often planned. It was prepared 
in a single great pot. First the meat was put in ; then from time to time, 
according as the particular things were quick or slow in cooking, the vegetables 
were added, — potatoes, beets, squash, turnip, and cabbage, — and probably in 
the same pot a bag of Indian pudding. When clock or noon-mark registered 
twelx'e, the dinner was dished up and the men called in. The meal was 
hearty and simple, and the family ditl not feel the need of much besides 
tlie meat and vegetables. Even bread was hardl}- thought necessary. Some- 
times i^ie or pudding was brought on for dessert, but not regularly. The 
pie-eating era began a generation later. 

At six o'clock the supper-table was set. The cows had been fed and 
milked ; the boys had brought in the wood, and as they had no wood-boxes, 



t ♦ 




5»WSS^^' 



A SAW-MILL 



they dumped the heavy three-foot sticks on the floor by the fire, or stood 
it up on end against the wall at one side, or piled it between the legs of the 
kitchen table ; and other odd jobs were done, and the family gathered about 
the table. Bread and milk was quite apt to be the chief supper dish. 



THE NEW ENGLAND COUNTRY 



After tlie blessing was asked and the elders had seated themselves, the children 
would fill their pewter porringers or wooden bowls and pull their chairs up 
about the firejilace. Instead, they would sometimes crouch on the stone hearth, 
while the fire glowed and crackled and set the lights and shatlows pla)'ing 
about the little figures. Their chatter back and forth and the company of 
the fire made their circle like a little world in itself, and the grown folks 
and their talk seemed far, far away. 

When supper was ended and the dishes done, the women took up 

knitting. Almost 
w as of home 
the task of mak- 
was a never-end- 
the little girls of 
w ere n o t idle, 
their first lessons 
needles. The 
work to d o , — 
c u p i e d wit h 
en harness o r 




A SPRING MORNING 



their sewing and 
everything worn 
manufacture, and 
ing and mending 
ing one. Even 
four or five years 
but were taking 
with the knitting- 
men had less real 
perhaps were oc- 
mending a brok- 

tool, making a birch broom, whittling out a few clothes-pins, or constructing 
a box-trap in which to catch mice. Sometimes certain of the family played 
games. Evening, too, was a time for reading. 

Just before the children went to bed, the family laid aside all tasks 
and games, and read a chapter from the Hible and had prayers. By nine 
o'clock all had retired except the father, — the head of the family, — who wound 
the clock, pulled off his boots in a boot-jack of his own making, and yawned 
as he shovelled the ashes over some of the larger hard-wood coals, lest 
the fire should be lost during the night. Then he, too, disappeared, and the 
fire snap[)ed more feebly, with now and then a fresh but short-lived eftbrt to 
blaze, and so faded into a dull glow and left the gloomy shadows of the 
room in almost full sway. 

It is difficult to compare the old life with the new and say that in 
any particular way one was better than the other, and decide under which 
conditions character would grow most manly or most womanly. Human 
nature is the same now as fifty or seventy-five years ago; but that nature 
grows in a difterent soil, and surrounded by a different atmosphere. Our 



28 



THE NEW ENGLAND COUNTRY 



present standards are unlike the old, the conditions surrounding us have 
changed, and the way in which our feelings, our desires, and aspirations 
find expression is changed as well. 

It is certain that all the elements of life and growth are within easier 




A WILLOW-LINED RIVER 



reach, and may more easily be drawn together and assimilated, that under 
favorable conditions one can get a finer and broader culture. Nature with 
all its forces, holding power for help and hindrance, has been brought more 
under man's subjection. Contributions to the sum of human thought and 
knowledge have been many and valuable. As the years have slipped away 
the upward path has been made broader and smoother, and one can travel 
it in more comfort and go much faster. But, at the same time, the down- 
ward paths have increased in number and attractiveness, and the narrower 
ways and more rigid training of three generations ago would unquestionably 
have held some steady who now are deteriorating. 

The fathers made the path toward virtue both narrow and rugged. 
It required sturdy self-control to keep that way; but each sternly held 
himself, his family, and his neighbors to the task. Any backsliding or step- 
ping aside called for severe reprimand or punishment. About their lives 
was a certain forbidding formality and setness. They had a powerful sense 



THE NEW ENGLAND COUNTRY 



31 



of independence, but were very conservative. Any change of thought or 
action was looked upon as dangerous, and they often made what was 
their independence another's bonds. Life was to them very serious. In it, 
according to their interpretation, there was room for Httle else than sober 
years of work. What enjoyment they got in life came from the satisfaction 
in work accomplished, in an improved property, and in prosperous sons and 
daughters. 

Men's character moulds their features. It graved deep lines of stub- 
born firmness on the faces of the men of that time. There were shown 
determination and enterprise and ingenuity. In the e)'es were steadiness and 
sturti}' honesty. But the softening which the free play of humor and imagi- 
nation would help produce were lacking. The man's nature was petrified 



4!^ -' > " - 
,>^-. J*»i.%> /•<■,/»'• 













» ' "^i «j 






KSi*Svr 



L^^ 



A LOOK DOvVN ON THE CONNECTICUT 



mto a rock which held its own, and withstood the sunshine and the bufteting 
storm with equal firmness. He had ability and willingness to bear great 
burdens, and the generation did a vast amount of work in the world. 

The individual to-day is much more independent of the world close 
about him than he was seventy-five years ago. He asks less of his neigh- 
bors, they less of him. The interests of the community are of less impor- 



32 



THE NEW ENGLAND COUNTRY 



tancc to him, and he is of less importance to the communit}-. The 
town which in the old days would have been a little world to him is now 
but a small space on the earth. Man has grown more restless. A quiet life 
of simple usefulness is not enough. His fingers itch for mone}' and he 
dreams of fame. He feels the swirl of the current which draws him toward 
those great whirlpools of life, — our modern cities. There alone, it seems to 
him, are things done on a grand scale to be admired ; there alone he sees 
fair scope for energy and ability. One b\' one the countr}' dwellers leave 
the home farms, and some there are win fame and some get fortune, but 



many are forever 
In times 
less hurr)' and 
To be satisfied 
has is to have 
er one lives in 
mansion. To live 
comfort was once 
view of what 
necessities of 
changed vastly, 
once have been 
may now be but 
ness. The people 
very little, and 
tact with outside 
n e i ST h b o r i n e 




THE SPRING HOEING 



lost sight of. 
past there was 
more content, 
w i t h w hat one 
happiness, wheth- 
a hovel or in a 
with econoni}' in 
enough. But the 
constitute the 
comfort has 
and what would 
accounted luxury 
a painful meagre- 
formerly travelled 
had small con- 
life, save that of 
towns, which dif- 



fered little from that at home. Journeys which now, with the aid of steam, 
are slight undertakings, were then very serious. In the case of journeys of 
any length, prayers were offered in church for the traveller's safe return ; 
and when the journey was ended, the minister gave thanks for the happy 
accomplishment of the trip. The labor and uncertainty connected with a 
long journey, and the unfamiliarity with the destination, made home seem a 
very safe and comfortable place. The newspapers were prosy and slow, 
and gave little account of the outside world to excite and attract the young. 
Long reports of legislative and congressional doings, and discussions of sub- 
jects political and religious, filled many columns. No space was wasted on 



THE NBIV ENGLAND COUNTRY 



33 




AN OLD TAVERN 



light reading. The object was not so much to interest as to instruct the 
reader. The communications and reports of news were inclined to be prosy 
and pompous, but were always thoughtful and courteous, rarely abusive or 
trivial. There was an almost entire lack of local news, and such things as 
stories, slang, or nonsense were not allowed. 



34 



THE NEW ENGLAND COUNTRY 



PART II 



THE NEW ENGLAND OF TO-DAY 




T 



HE New England country has with the ageing of 
the century been depopulated. The causes arc 
various, but the evolution of the newspaper has much 
to do with this. Visions of movement, and wealth, and 
fame penetrate daily to the smallest village. Youth has 
always elements of unfixity and uneasiness. It crave.i 
stir and excitement. The future is full of golden pos- 
sibilities. Riches or position present no heiglit which 
may not be scaled. But it is not the farm which holds 
these higher possibilities. No, they are to be won in 
store, or shop, or bank, where the noisy tides of the 
big towns keep up their restless sway through the leagues 
of brick-walled city streets. In the city is always movement. Not a paper 
comes into the country village but that tells of some grand emprise, some fresh 



THE FRIENDLY GUIDE 



^vfc 




A HILL TOWN 



THE NEW ENGLAND COUNTRY 



35 




THE BACK SHEDS 



excitement, that has its home in a famiHar near city. But the chronicler for 
the home viHage finds no items more worthy of note than that some one's cow 
has died, and that Amanda Jones is visiting Susan Smith. The contrast 
presented is one of home monotony and triviality, and city stir and grandeur. 
The picture is not altogether a 
true one. Acquaintance with 
the big places is to the coun- 
try boy almost uniformly dis- 
appointing. The buildings arc 
not so high nor so fine as he 
supposed. The din and crowds 
of the cit\' streets grow confus- 
ing and wearisome. If he stays 
and gains a situation, and be- 
gins to work his wa\^ up in 
the world, he finds competition 
intense, his freedom sharplv cur- 
tailed, and his lodgings narrow 

and in many ways lacking comfort. If he lives on his wages, which at first 
will be very small, close economy is recpiired in food, clothes, and other 
expenses. In summer the heat is apt to make office and lodging-place 
stiflingly disagreeable. All through the year memories of the home farm, if 
he be imaginatively inclined, make Arcadian pictures in his mind, and he 
many times questions if he has not jumped from the frying-pan into 
the fire. 

No one place holds every element of pleasure or comfort. The country 
has its lacks, so has the city. The ideal home is perhaps in the country 
village within easy travelling distance of some big town. Thus you may 
largely avoid the drawbacks of either place, while you have within reach all 
their pleasures. To live far back among the hills, cut off from the nearest 
railway station by many miles of hard travelling, is, in these modern days, 
a positive hardship. Few \'Oung people will settle down contentedly where 
they are so cut oft" from the pleasures of seeing the world by occasional 
railroad trips, and getting the glimpses they crave of the busier life of the 
cities. Hence the tide sets away from the remoter towns. The masses always 
follow the turn of the current whichever way it shows strong tendency to 



36 



THE NEW ENGLAND COUNTRY 



run, and the boys, as they grow up, Hve in full expectation of leaving the 
home place after school-days are over. One by one they go from the valleys 
and the hill-tops, and merge into the busier life of the factory villages and 
the cities. An air of depression lingers over the regions they leave. The 
most vigorous life has departed, enterprise is asleep, thrift lags. There are 
still houses neatly kept, with clean, well-tilled fields about, and a town now 
and then which is a happy exception to the rule; but there is much which 
is hopeless and despondent. Few roads can be followed far without coming 




WINTER TWILIGHT — GOING UP FOR ONE MORE SLIDE 



upon some broken-windowed ruin of a house, now for years unoccupied, and 
wholly given over to decay. The children left, drawn by dreams of the 
gains the city or the sea or the far West offered ; and the parents are gone, 
too, now. The shingles and clapboards loosen and the roof sags, and 
within, damp, mossy decay has fastened itself to walls, floor, and ceiling of 
every room. Gaps have broken in the stone walls along the roadway, and 
the brambles are thick springing on either side. In the front yard is a 
gnarled, untrimmed apple-tree with a great broken limb sagging to the ground, 
and about a ragged growth of bushes. As time goes on, the house falls 
piece by piece, and at last only the shattered chimney stands, a grim monu- 
ment of the one-day comfortable home — a memorial of the dead past. 



THE NEW ENGLAND COUNTRY 



37 



Yet even now life is not all of the past. Amidst the rubbish careful 
watching might reveal many of the little creatures of the field, and at 
eventide of summer days you might see a darting of wings and descry 
a little company of swallows dipping toward the chimney's open cavern. 

Some of the deserted homes would be still habitable, and that 
very comfortably so, were there tenants. The life possible on these farms 
would seem much happier and more desirable than that possible to the 
poor family in the tenement of a factory village or in the crowded quarters 
of our cities. But the country is to such very " lonesome," and there is hardly 
a city family of the more ignorant classes but will choose squalor in the 
city rather than comfort in the country. The noise and continual move- 
ment of the town have become a part of their lives, and severed from that 
it is but a blank, unspeaking landscape unfolds before their eyes. Nature is 
really never lonesome. Only our habit and education make it so seem. 
Nature is always singing, whether in our fellow humans, or in the hills and 
valleys, or in the life of plants and animals. It is we lack eyes to see and 
ears to hear., Nevertheless, mankind is naturally social, and though Robinson 




A HILL-TOWN VILLAGE 



38 THE NEIV ENGLAND COUNTRY 

Crusoe and his island were very interesting, we do not env\- him the 
experience, and demand at least a few congenial neighbors within eas}' reach. 




HOVIES AND OUT-EUILDINGS BY THE WAYSIDE 



There is hardly any purel\' farming comnumil)- in New England but 
that has decreased in population within the past fifty years. It has been 
the hill towns which have suffered most, but the valley towns have been 
affected as well. It has become the habit to account all country life dull, 
and the city's superior liveliness, and the chances to earn read)' money 
offered by stores and factories, draw awa\' the life of e\XMi the most favored 
communities. New England is to day much less a region of thriftv' \'ankec 
farmers than it is a land of busy manufacturing \illages. (Jf these, enter- 
prise and ingenious inventiveness are characteristic. They call to them a large 
foreign population which fills the monotonous rows of tenements m the 
neighborhood of the mills, or in the case of the more thrifty establishes 
itself in little separate famil}' homes on the outskirts. The farming regions 
about naturally take to market gardening, and these places become the chief 
buyers of produce for the country miles about. 

Farming towns within easy distance of the railroatls usually attain a 



THE NEIV ENGLAND COUNTRY 



39 



fair prosperity, and energy and forethought give good returns for labor 
expended. The towns themselves with their elm-shadowed streets are neatly 
kept, and there is a certain pride taken in the good appearance of the 
homes half hidden in the drooping foliage. In the remoter towns are found 
thrifty dairy farms here and there, but the villages as a whole are inclined 
to look weatherworn and hopeless. Many of the houses have been strangers 
to fresh paint for a score of years or more ; and others, though still inhabited, 
depress with their broken chimnies, leaky roofs, and decrepit out-buildings; 
while there are not wanting the homes altogether deserted, silent, broken- 
windowed, and sepulchral. Often these upland towns are nearly barren of 




^4eJW^' _2 __ , 






NEW ENGLAND ROCKS 



well-grown trees which might add so much to their appearance, and the trees 
there are, look wind-blown and storm-beaten. This, with the thin, weedy 
grasses which grow on the opens before the churches, gives such places an 
accumulated forlornness. 

It may be possible to find one of the outlying hamlets entirely de- 



40 



THE NEIV ENGLAND COUNTRY 



serted. There are little villages where you may find half a dozen or more 
forsaken homes, and no more than one or two still occupied ; and the whole 
village and land is concentrated in one or two big farms, — big only in 
acres, however. There is slight attempt, as a rule, to keep up a thorough 
tillage. The best of the fields are gone ov^er each year and a scanty harvest 
gleaned, and it ma\- be questioned if equal labor on fewer acres would not 
produce greater results. The surplus buildings of the now depopulated vil- 
lage receive slight care, and time and decay deal hardly with them. The 




HOLDING THE HORSES WHILE HIS FATHER GOES IN TO GET A DRINK OF V/ATER 



best of them serve as storage places for farm crops or tools. The more 
broken-down are levied upon occasionally for a few boards to mend a fence 
or a leak in one of the neighboring buildings, and so is hastened their time 
of complete ruin. 

Some places have won the favor of the summer visitors, and so have 
gained renewed prosperity. A few weeks' sojourn far from the heat and 
noise of the city on these quiet, breezy hill-tops is no small pleasure, and 
many a person of means takes pride in the cottage home he has bought 
in some nook he thinks especially favored by nature, and looks forward all 
through the lengthening days of the spring to the time when he can unlock 
its door once more, wind the clock in the hall, and settle himself with his 



THE NEW ENGLAND COUNTRY 



43 





A DAM ON THE CONNECTICUT 



famil}' for the \'earl}" vacation. He finds not a little fussing and fixing to 
emi)lo\' him about the place, and he saunters forth in his oldest suit, when the 
notion takes him, to talk with his neighbors the farmers. The chances are he 
gets off his coat and renews his }^outh by hel[)ing in the ha\'-field, and 
there, like enough, the rest of Iiis flock hunt him out, and all have a 




AT THE RAILROAD STATION 



44 



THE NEIV ENGLAND COUNTRY 



triumphal ride on the loaded cart behind the slow-moving^ oxen to the 
barn. 

When the summer visitor came up from the railroad station on the 

train, he noted the enticing look of the little streams in the hollows, and 




IE OUTSKIRTS OF A GROWING FACTORY VILLAGE 



the tinkling murmur of the waterfalls sounded in his ear a call to get 
forth his fishing-rod. He was not long settled in his vacation home before 
the fishing-tackle was forthcoming, and he might be seen with vast caution 
and seriousness following up the neighboring brook through the tangled 
woods, and across the pastures among the rank-growing ferns and grasses, 
casting the fly and trailing it after tlie most approved fashion along the 
surface of the water, and perchance, if destiny favored, pulling forth at times 
a dainty little trout. The streams are so thoroughly fished that at finger- 
length, in the more accessible regions, the fish is esteemed a prize. Driv- 
ing is always in order. There are glens, and waterfalls, and high hills with 
wonderfully far outlooks, and delightful winding valleys, to visit almost without 
number. 

On Sunday the summer visitor goes to the village church. Perhaps 
the services are not as brilliant as those to which he is used, but there is 



THE NEW ENGLAND COUNTRY 



45 



a comfortable simplicity to the place, the people, the sermon, and the singing 
which charms. The visitor is often a ready and valued helper in making the 
church and its belongings more attractive, and takes an interest in the schools 
and library and appearance of the town, which to many a place has been 
of great assistance. The vacation which includes, beside the ordinary out- 
door pleasuring, some of this sort of helpfulness gives a multiplied satisfaction 
at its close. 

The country dwellers of New England are not to-day, in the mass, as 
strong charactered and vigorously intelligent as were those of the early part 
of the century. Those elements have found greater attraction and greater 
chance of reward elsewhere. It often happens that thrift seems to dwell 
rather with recent comers from across the water than with the older families. 




THE RAILV/AY-CROSSING IN THE VILLAGE 



This is sometimes claimed to be because the first will live more meanly than 
the latter could bring themselves to. The truth is, the new-comers have no 
pride of family name to sustain, they know attainment rests only on hard work, 
and their secret of success lies more in their steady labor and good business 
habits than in any meanness of living. The scions of the old families are 
looser in their methods and more reckless and showy, and far less given to 



46 



THE NEW ENGLAND COUNTRY 



vigorous work. They may be heard to bewail over this foreign element as 
usurpers; but in reality comers of thrift and intelligence, whatever their former 
homes, are a help to the town life. Hard work, saving habits, and the aspira- 
tion to give the children of the family an education, has a healthful effect on 
character, and win oftentimes for those growing up in these homes culture 
and practical abilit}' equalling the best of that of the older families. If a 




A STONE BRIDGE 



foreign family takes up with some little house on the outskirts, it ma}' live 
very shabbih- for the first few years. But the land about is graduall}- brought 
under full and thrift)' tillage, little sheds begin to spring up behind the house, 
by and by a barn is built, and then the house is made over and an L added, 
and the progress toward prosperity as presented to the e\-e is a thing to be 
admired. It is almost always the remnants of the worn out Yankee families 
which come on the town, and not these foreigners. 

" Yankee " has become almost a synonym for ingeniousness, thrift, and 
"cuteness." You can't scare him; get him in a tight place and he will 



THE NEW ENGLAND COUNTRY 



47 




find a way out; set him a task and he will find some way to do it in half 
the time you expected; make him the butt of a joke and he will get even 
with you and pay heavy interest; no matter what part of the earth you trans- 
plant him to or the conditions you surround him with, he accommodates 
himself to the new circumstances, and proceeds with alacrity to financially 
profit by them. He is a born arguer, and a born pedler, and a born whittler, 
a Jack-at-all-tradcs and good at them all. 

This, it may be, is the typical Yankee, and without a doubt such can 
be found ; but not every inhabitant of New England is made that way. 
Yankees are of all kinds, and the abilities, virtues, and short-comings are 
much mixed in the parcelling out. The Yankee is a man of opinions, and 
shows great readiness to impart them to others; but the depth or shallowness 
of these depends on the man. He is inclined to slow speaking and nasal 
tones, and when a question is asked has a way of turning it over in his 
mind once or twice before he gives answer, often improving the interval to 
spit seriously and meditatively. In bargaining, wiiatever the amount involved, 
he is given to dickering, crying down, or upholding the price, according 



48 



THH NHJV tlNGLAND COUNTRY 




as he is bu\'cr or seller. The thrifty man is sometimes simpl\' the man 
of push and ability sometimes the miseih' man who drives sharp bargains 

and forecloses mortgages when his 
poor neighbors arc in tiouble, and 
sells hard cider to the drinkers ; 
or he may be one of high stand- 
ing in church and communit\% who, 
tlunigh stickling for fairness, is sure 
to bu\' low and sell high ; who is 
up at sunrise in summer and long 
before daylight in winter; who 
makes long days and fills them 
with hard work, and is esteemed a hard master by sons and hired men ; who 
lives frugally, and when it comes to spending, as the saying goes, " squeezes 
the dollar uiitil the eagle squeals." 

As a rule New England country people save nothing above expenses, 
and even then, spending all they earn, can have few more than the most 
common comforts o. life, and rarely a luxury. Circumstance or some un- 
toward accident of fate may bring this result, but an unstriving lack of 
thrift is more frequently the cause. Those of this class have a way of 
being always a little behind in what they do, and there is a dragging want 



A WAYSIDE WATERING-TROUGH 




A COUNTRY SCHOOL WATCHING A TRAIN GO BY 



THE NEW ENGLAND COUNTRY 



49 



of vitalit)' in what thc\- attempt. The)' arc a little late in planting, a 
little late in harxesting. They never get full crops, and fall below the 
best always in qualit\', and are apt to suffer loss through frost or foul 
weather. "The stitch in time which saves nine" about their buildings tliey 



E^^}^^^^*^^-^*' * ""-■ " ' ■" K- 





Wd 




AN OLD BURYING-GROUND 



do not take, and these buildings lose boards here and there, and presently 
begin to sag and need a prop to keep them from coming down prone. So 
crops, and animals, and farm-tools are ill-protected, and there is increased loss. 

As compared with the typical Southerner, the Yankee has less warmth 
of enthusiasm, less open-heartedness and chivalry, but he is steadier and has 
greater staying- power. The ne'er-do-well class of the North may wear their 
hearts on their sleeves and be as free as air in their kindliness and generosity, 
but Yankee thrift, however generous or philanthropic, is self-controlled and 
inclined to be reticent and politic. But though this may lessen the charm 
and poetry of it, there is no doubting its increased effectiveness. 

Thrift is apt to become with the well-to-do a sort of passion The 



50 



THE NHIV ENGLAND COUNTRY 



lack of it in a neighbor stirs continued and sarcastic criticism. On the 
other hand, thrift easily runs into closeness; but the worshipper of thrift is 
not mean and entirely selfish in this regard. It is a pleasure to him to see 
well-tilled fields, even if they belong to others, and he has the wish to make 
what attracts him general. The rich at their death often leave their fortunes 
in whole or in part to some charity or educational institution which will 
further a more general thrift. 

In stories of New England village-life we find a curious dialect used 
by the characters. Ouaintness and uncouthness are both prominent. To 




BELOW THE DAM 



one thoroughly acquainted with its people these stories savor of exaggera- 
tion and caricature. Ignorance everywhere uses bad grammar, whether in 
town or countr}-, New England or elsewhere. Isolation tends also to careless 
speech. But the New hinglander has not either, as a rule, to so marked a 
degree as to make him the odd specimen of humanity pictured in books. Eife 
in the small villages and on the outlying farms does not present very numer- 
ous social advantages, and the result is a necessity for depending on one's 
own resources. This, with those possessed of some mental vigor, de\'elops 
individuality of thought and stable and forceful character. In the t^wns it 
requires the consultation and help of about half a dozen friends for a young 



THE NEW ENGLAND COUNTRY. 



51 







A MASSACHUSETTS MOUNTAIN 



person to accomplish any i;iven object, great or small. On the farm, where 
neighbors are few, the boy or girl does his or her own thinking and 
working. Such have more pith and point to their brain movement, and in 
after life under as favoring circumstances will accomplish more. 




52 



THh: NHIV ENGLAND COUNTRY 



Indiviclualit}^ expresses itself in manner and speech as well as thouij^ht, 
and odd ways and queer ideas and pecidiar observations are to be met 
with ver\' commonly in the New ]'2ngland country. The heav}' work brings 
a certain amount of clumsiness with the strength. The rough clothes usually 
worn, and the slight care given them, often make an individual grotesque, 








*** 




A FALL ON THE CONNECTICUT 



and the majority of the workers attain to the picturesque in their costumes 
with their variety of patched and faded oldncss. A peculiarity of recent 
years has come with the fashion of derby hats. There is a naturalness 
about an old slouch hat, however ancient, stained, and misshapen. If it does 
not grow old gracefully, it at least docs so logically and without reminding 
the beholder of a more exalted past. But the battered and leaky derby 
retains to the last a stiff look of aristocracy which ill fits its dilapidated 
seediness. 

But whether a man is uncouth or not depends on other things than 
his occupation. Neatness is a growth from within rather than from without, 
and though no sensible farmer works in his Sunday clothes on week-days, 



THE NEIV ENGLAND COUNTRY 



55 




THE GROWING BOY IN HIS 
LAST YEAR'S CLOTHES 



there are many by whom you arc agreeably impressed, no 
matter where you meet them. A look from the car win- 
dow on a rainy day, as you pause at the villages on 
your route, reveals a curious motley group hanging about 
the platform. The depot is a favorite resort on stormy 
days when work is slack on the farm ; but loafing is not 
characteristic of the best of the community, and it is 
hardly fair to judge all by the specimens who here pre- 
sent themselves. 

Indoors, where presides the housewife, we expect 
to find neatness in supreme rule, for the New England 
woman has in that a wide repute. It is to be doubted 
if the old-time shining and spotless interiors which the 
grandmothers tell about are as universal now as for- 
merl\'. But house-cleanings come with great regularity 
in most families, and the consumption of brooms and 
scrubbing-brushes in New England is something enormous. With the advent 
of wall-paper and carpets and the great variety of furniture and knick-knacks 
now within reach, has come a discontent with the old simplicity, and the 
changes are often not pleasing. Taste runs too much in wall-paper and 
carpets to dark colors 
and pronounced patterns, 
and the rooms appear 
boxy. If much money 
is spent on furniture it 
is apt to be spent on 
style rather than on sub- 
stantial and quiet com- 
fort. The pictures on 
the walls are usually a 
queer collection, from — 
it would be hard to im- 
agine where ; of colored 
prints, engravings cut 
from newspapers, and 
photographs of deceased at the back-door 




56 



THE NE]V ENGLAND COUNTRY 



members of the family. The science of house decoration is something very 
modern, and it will take time to learn how to do it simply and harmoni- 
ously. 

Life's currents pursue a tangled course, and while we catch many 
strains of harmony, there are discordant notes of which we rarely get entirely 
out of hearing. New England is not perfect, but once to have known is always 




rHE ACADEMY 



to love it, no matter how far one wanders or how fair new regions open 
before one's eyes. Its changing seasons, its rugged hills and tumbling streams, 
its winding roadways, its villages and little farms, cling in the memory and 
sing siren songs of enticement. Nature is sometimes harsh, but she has 
many moods, and nowhere more than here ; and if harsh sometimes, she is 
at other times exceeding sweet. In cold or heat, storm or sunshine, New 
Eneland's rouuh fields are still the true Arcadia to her sons and daughters. 



THE NEW' ENGLAND COUNTRY 



57 



PART III 




A HORSE-CHESTNUT MAN 



NEW ENGLAND AS THE TRAVELLER SEES IT 

O really sec and know New England one must leave the railroads 
and take time for a long tramp or drive. Railroads are only 
intended to link together the cities and larger towns, and they 
seek the level and monotonous for their routes, and pursue 
alwa}'s as straight and j^rosaic a course as circumstances 
will admit. The view from the windows of ragged banks 
of earth or rock, where a path has been cut through a 
hill, or of the sand}- embankments, where a hollow has 
been filled, and of pastures, swamps, and stumpy, brushy 
acres, where the timber has lately been cut off, are often 
dismal. At the same time the real country as seen 
from the winding, irregular roadways that link the 
villages and scattered farms together may be quite 
cheerful and pleasing. 
With the purpose of seeing the real New England in its highways 
and byways, its hills and val- 
leys, its nooks and corners, I 
started out one autumn da)' 
on a buckboard. I had a 
little bay horse, fat and good- 
natured, quite content to stop 
as often and long as I chose, 
and to busy herself nibbling 
the grass and bushes by the 
roadside, while I sketched or 
photographed. She had a 
decided disinclination for fast 
travelling, and wanted to walk 




AFTERGLOW 



58 



THE NEIV ENGLAND COUNTRY 



as soon as a hill came in sight. But I wished to go slowly in the main, 
and we got along very agreeably, thougli at times I fear ni}- remarks and 
hints to the creature between the shafts were not complimentary or pleasing 
to that animal. Houses where one could get a lunch at noon were not 
always handy, and I took the precaution to carr\' along some eatables for 
myself and a few feeds of oats for the horse. 




THE VILLAGE CHURCH 



It was nine o'clock when I left Old Hadley in Central Massachusetts 
and turned northward up the valley. A cold wind was blowing, and man\- 
gray cloud-masses were sailing overhead. The region about was one of the 
fairest in New England, — a wide, fertile valley basin stretching twent}' miles in 
either direction. The Connecticut River loops through it with many graceful 
curves, and blue ranges of hills bound it on every side. At intervals of 
about ten miles on this level you come upon the few scores of houses, 
which cluster about the churches at the centre of- the towns, and there are 
many little hamlets where are lesser groups of homes. 



THH NHIV ENGLAND COUNTKY 



59 




ONE OF THE HUMBLER HOUSES 



I was jogging across 

some meadows, when I came 

to a few houses flanked b\' 

numerous out-buildings and 

half hidden b\' the trees about 

them. Some chiklren were by 

the roadside. The\- had rakes 

and a big basket, and were 

intent on gathering the maple 

leaves which carpeted the 

ground. The\- stopped to 

watch me as I approachetl. 

"Take m }' picture," 

cried a stout little girl, and then threw the basket over her head and struck 

an attitude. 

" All right,'' was m\- reply. 

" Oh ! " she said, " I want my cat in," and raced off to the house 

to secure it. 

She was no sooner back and in position than she found a new trouble. 

She had on a little cap with a ver\- narrow visor, and as the sun had now 

come out, its bright light made her eyes wink. Suddenly she spoke up 

and said the little cap made her cry, and wanted to get a hat, if I 

would let her. When she returned I made haste to snap the camera before 

an)' other ideas could occur to her. We were pretty well acquainted by 

the time I finished, and she 
wanted to know how much I 
charged for my picture, and 
said she guessed she would 
get one if I came that way 
again. 

The town of Sunderland 
lay a little beyond. It is a 
typical valle}' town, with a 
long, wide street lined by 
elms and maples, thickset on 
A DESERTED HOME citlicr sidc b }' the white 




6o 



THE NFW ENGLAND COUNTRY 




^■S^BEs-SAt^PTHL 



GETTING A LOAD OF SAWDUST BACK OF THE SAW-MILL 



houses of its people. KverytliinL^ looked thrift}' and well kept. The wind 

blew gustily, and sometimes would start the leaves which had just begun to 

strew the ground beneath and send 

windrows of them scurrying along • 

the road like live armies on a 

charge. 

I was in the vilhige in the 
late afternoon, when school let out. 
It was interesting to note the w'a\- 
the bo}'s came down the street 
slanmiing about, shouting, and trip- 
ping each other up. It seemed to 
me there was one sort of }'oung- 

stcr who had need to reform. You find this variety in every village where 
half a dozen boys can get together. He talks in a loud voice when any 
witnesses or a stranger is about, is rude to his fellows, jostles tliem and 
orders them about, cracks crude jokes, either e.\ceedingl\- pointless, or else of 

great age and worn threadbare, at which 
he himself has to do a good share of the 
laughing. He is, in short, showing off, 
^j#- and the show is a \'ery poor one. He 

makes himself both disagreeable cuui ridicu- 
lous to most, and can onl\- win admiration 
from a few weak-mindctl comiKuiions or 
overawed small boys. 
He is apt to grow 
into something of a 
bull}' among those 
weaker than himself, 
and to become, when 
older, a }^oung man 
with a swagger. 

It was October, 

the days were short, 

and I had early to seek a stopping-place for the night. It still lacked 

something of supper-time when I put my horse out at one of the farm- 




A MEADOW STREAM 



THE NEW ENGLAND COUNTRY 



6i 



houses, and I took the opportunity for a walk on the village street. The 
damp gloom of evening had settled down. There were lights in the windows 
and movements at the barns, and a team or two was jogging homeward 
along the road. Westward, in plain sight across the river, was the heavy 
spur of a mountain, dark against the evening sky. * A single little light was 
trembling on the summit of the crag. This came from a building known 
as " the prospect house." The proprietor lives there the year around, and 
from Sunderland's snug street, on cold winter nights, the light is still to be 
seen sending out shivering rays into the frosty darkness. 



- ^v ♦V'^ 



"^-.A-.!^. J % ■'• "43-y f " 




A HOME UNDER THE ELMS 



I returned presently to the house and had supper. That finished, the 
small bo)' of the family brought a cu^) of boiled chestnuts, and while we 
munched them, explained how he had picked up eighty-one quarts of nuts 
so far that year. In his })ocket the boy had other treasures. He pulled 
forth a handful of horse-chestnuts, and told me they grew on a little tree 
down by the burying-ground. 

" The boys up at our school make men of 'em," he said. " They 
take one chestnut and cut a face on it like you do on a pumpkin for a 
jack-o'-lantern. That's the head. Then they take a bigger one and cut 
two or three places in front for buttons, and make holes to stick in 



62 THE NEW ENGLAND COUNTRY 

toothpicks for legs, and thc\' stick in more for arms, ami with a little short 
piece fasten the head on the body. Then they put 'em up on the stove- 
pipe where the teacher can't get 'cm, and they sta\' there all day. Some- 




A DOOR-STEP GROUP 



times the\^ make caps for 'cm." He got out his jack-knife and spent the 
rest of the evening manufacturing these queer little men for ni}' benefit. 

The next morning I turned eastward and went along the quiet, 
pleasant roads, now in the woods, now among pastures where the wayside 
had grown up to an everchanging hedge of bushes and trees. Aluch of 
the way was uphill, and I sometimes came out on open slopes which gave 
far-away glimpses over the valley I had left behind. 

About noon I stopped to sketch one of the picturesque watering- 
troughs of the region. There was a house close by, and a motherly look- 
ing old lad}' peeked out at me from the door to discover what I was up 
to. I asked if I might stay to dinner. She said I might if I would 
be content with their fare, and I drove around to the barn. An old gentle- 



THE NEW ENGLAND COUNTRY. 



6^ 



mail and his hired man were pounding and prying at a big rock which 
protruded above the surface right before the wagon-shed. They liad blasted 
it, and were now getting out the fragments. By the time I had my horse 
put out, dinner was ready, and we all went into the house. We had " a 
boiled dinner," — potatoes, fat pork, cabbage, beets, and squash all cooked 
together. The dish was new to me, but I found it quite eatable. 

I was again on the road, jogging comfortabl)' along, when I noticed 
two little people coming across a field close by. They walked hand in 
hand, and each carried a tin pail of apples. The boy was a stout little 
fellow, and the girl, a few sizes smaller, very fat and pudgy and much 
bundled up. I told them I'd like to take their pictures. They didn't know 
what to make of that ; but I got to work, and they stood by the fence 
looking at me very seriously. I was nearly readv' when a woman from the 
doorway of a house a little ways back called out, " Go right along, Georgie ! 
Don't stop!" I told her I wanted to make their photographs — it wouldn't 
take but a minute. She said they ought to be dressed up more for that. 
But I said they looked verv nice as they were, and hastened to get my 
picture. Then the two went toddling on. The boy 
told me there was a big pile of apples back there ; ■5%.=^\ /\\^ / 

also, as I was starting away, that his father had just '\f^'^}\»S^h^ 
bought a horse. 

I took the sandy long hill way toward Shutes- 
bury, a place famous for miles about for its 
huckleberry crops. It is jokingly said that 
this is its chief source of wealth, and the - 

story goes that " One year the huckleberry 
crop failed up in Shutesbury, and the people 
had nothin' to live on and were all comin' 
on to the town, and the selectmen were so 
scared at the responsibility, they all run 
away." 

The scattered houses began to dot the way as I proceeded, and after 
a time I saw the landmarks of the town centre — the two churches, perched on 
the highest, barest hilltop eastward. The sun was getting low, and chilly even- 
ing was settling down. Children were coming home from school ; men, who had 
been away, were returning to do up their work about the house and barn 




A ROADSIDE FRIEND 



64 



THE NEW ENGLAND COUNTRY 



before supper, and a boy was driving his cows down the street. T hurried 
on over the hill and trotted briskU- down into the valle\' beyond, but it 
was not long before the road again turned upward. The woods were all 
about. In the pine groves, which grew in patches along the way, tlie ground 
was carpeted with needles, and the wheels and horse's hoofs became almost 
noiseless. There were openings now and then through the trunks and leaf- 
age, and I could look far away to the north-east, and see across a wide 
valley the tree-covered ridges patched with evergreens, and the ruddy oak 
foliage rolling away into ranges of distant blue, ami, be\-ond all. Mount 
Monadnock's heavy pyramid. The sun was behind the hill I was climbing, 
and threw a massive purple shadow over the vallc)'. lieyond, the ridges 




BETTER THAN HOEING ON A HOT DAY 



were flooded with clear autumn sunlight. Far off could be seen houses, and 
a church now and then — bits of white, to}'-like, in the distance. The east- 
ward shadows lengthened, the light in the woods grew cooler and grayer, 
and just as I was fearing darkness would close down on me in the woods, 
I turned a corner and the hill was at an end. There were houses close 
ahead, and off to the left two church steeples. 

This was New Salem. The place had no tavern, but I was directed 
to one of the farm-houses which was in the habit of keeping " transients." 
There v/as only a boy at home. His folks were awa\', and he had built a 
fire in the kitchen and was fussing around, keeping an e\'e on the window 
in expectation of the coming of the home team. It arrived soon after, 
and in came his mother and sister, who had been to one of the valley 
towns trading and visiting. The father was over at " the other farm," but 
he came in a little later. Mrs. Cogswell told of the day's happenings, and 



THE NEW ENGLAND COUNTRY 



67 



how she had found a knife by the roadside. It was '* kind of stuck up," 
and she said she would bet some old tobacco-chewer owned it. However, 
Mr. Cogswell, having smelt of it, guessed not. 

His wife now brought in a blanket she had bought at the "Boston 
Store," and we all examined it, felt of it, and guessed what it was worth. 




THE PET OF THE FARM 



Then she told what she paid, and how cheap she could get various other 
things, and what apples would bring. 

As we sat chatting after supper, Mr. Cogswell took out his watch and 
began to wind it. It was of the Waterbury variety, and winding took a 
long time, and gave him a chance to discourse of watches in general, and 
of this kind in particular. Frank had such a watch, he said, and he took 
it to pieces and it was about all spring. 

" You never saw such a thing," said Mrs. Cogswell. " Why, it sprung 
out as long as this table." 

"Ho, as long as this table!" said Mr. Cogswell; "it would reach 'way 



68 



THE NEIV ENGLAND COUNTRY 



across the room." He said his own watch kept very good time as a gen- 
eral thing, onl)' it needed winchng twice a day. 

I was out earl\' the next morning. The east still held some soft rose 




THE BIG BARN-DOOR 



tints, streaks of fog lingered in the valley, and the frost still whitened the 
grass. After breakfast I went northward, down through the woods and pas- 
tures, int() Miller's valle}'. I followed a winding ravine in which a mountain 
brook went roaring over its uneven bed toward the lowlantl. I came into 
the open again at the little village of Wendell Depot. It was a barren 
little clearing. I found, wooded hills all about, a railroad running through, 
several bridges, and a dam with its rush and roar of water; a broad i)ond 
lay above, and below, the water foamed and struggled and slid away beneath 
the arches of a mossy stone bridge, and hurried on to pursue its winding 
way to the Connecticut. There was a wooden mill by the stream-side. It 
was a big, square structure with dirt\' walls and staring rows of windows. 
No trees were about, only the ruins of a burned paper-mill, whose sentinel 
chimney still stood, a blackened monument of the fire. There were a few 
of the plain houses built by the mill for its help, a hotel, some sand-banks, 
a foreign population, a dark, hurrying river, the roar of a dam, long lines of 
freight-cars moving through, and grim hills reaching awa)' toward the sky. 

P'rom here I went westward, and in the earl}' afternoon crossed the 
Connecticut River and began to follow up the valley of the Deerfield. I 



THE NEW ENGLAND COUNTRY 



69 



had to go over a big mountain ridge, but after that had comparatively level 
travelling. I went on till long after sunset, and presently inquired of a man 
I met walking if there were houses on ahead. He said Solomon Hobbs 
owned the nearest place, and lived up a big hill a ways off the main road. 
A little after I met a team, and concluded to make more definite inquiry. 
"Can you tell me where Mr. Hobbs lives?" I asked. 

"Who, John?" he questioned as he pulled in his horse. 

" No, Solomon," I replied. 

" Oh, er, Solly ! He lives right up the hill here. Turn off the next 
road and go to the first house." 

It was quite dark now, and when I came to the steep, rough rise of 
the hill I got out and walked and led the horse. In time I saw a light 









THE BOY WHO MOWS AWAY 



on ahead, and I drove into the steep yard. I had my doubts about stop- 
ping there when I saw how small the house and barn were. A man responded 
to my knock on the door and acknowledged to the name of Solomon Hobbs. 
He was a tall, broad-shouldered, long-bearded farmer, apparently about fifty 
years of age He had on heavy boots and was in his checked shirt- 
sleeves. He didn't know about keeping me overnight, but their supper was 



70 



THE NEIV ENGLAND COUNTRY 



just ready, and I might .stay to that if I wanted to. He directed me to 
hitch m\' horse to a post of the piazza and come in. On a low table was 
spread a scant}' meal. Codfish was the most prominent dish on the board. 
After eating, I was ushered into the little parlor, for they had certain pictures of 
the scenery thereabout they wished me to see. Mr. Hobbs brought along his 
lantern and set it on the mantel-piece. It remained there though Mrs. Hobbs 
came in and lit a gaudy hanging-lamp. She was a straight little woman 
with short hair, rather curly and brushed up, wore earrings, did nut speak 




SUMMER SUNLIGHT IN A "GORGE ROAD' 



readily, and acted as if her head did not work first-rate. The little boy, 
who was the third member of the family, came in also. There was an iron, 
open fireplace with charred sticks, ashes, and rubbish in it. The carpet on 
the floor seemed not to be tacked down, and it gathered itself up in bunches 
and folds. The sofa and marble-topped centre-table and many of the chairs 
were filled with papers, books, boxes, and odds and ends. 

There was some doubt as to where the pictures were, and it required 
considerable hunting in books and albums and cupboards and boxes and top- 
shelves to produce them. I did not notice that they put up any of the things 
they pulled down. Mr. Hobbs said of his wife that she had been in poor 



THE NEW ENGLAND COUNTRY 



71 




ONE UF THL LITTLE RIVERS 



health for a year past, and hadn't been able to keep thin-s in order. When 
I had examined the pictures I -ot read>- to start on. Mr. Hobbs said there 
was a hotel a mile up the road. T unhitched m>' horse, and the little boy, 
with a lantern, ran before me and -uided me through the gateway. 

At the hotel, when I had made the horse comfortable in the barn T 
betook myself to the bar-room, where a brisk open fire was burning. A number 
of men were loafing there, most of them smoking. One was a tall, stout- 
figured man who was always read)- to back his opinion with a bet of a 
certain number of dollars, and quoted knowledge gained a year when he was 
selectman to prove statements about the worth of farms. 

The proprietor of the place was a young man, with small eyes rather 
red with smoke or something else, a prominent beaklike nose, a mustache, 
and receding chin. He had an old, straight, short coat on, and he had thin 
legs, and looked very much like some sort of a large bird. He had a very 
sure way of speaking, and emphasized this sureness by the manner in which 
he would withdraw his cigar, half close his little eyes, and puft" forth a thin 
stream of tobacco smoke. 



7^ 



THR NFW ENGLAND COUNTRY 



In tlic niorninL^ I was out just as the sun looked over some cloud 
layers at the eastern horizon and brightened up the misty landscape. I left 
the hotel, and soon was on my way up the Deerfield River into the moun- 
tains. It was a fine da\', clear at first, and with man\' gray clouds sailing 
later. I jogged on up and down the little hills on the road which kept 







l^i« 



'•^J:^.'' jjiswxw Aki^' ■• . "^ 








THE VILLAGE GROCERYMAN 



along the winding course of the river. All the way was hemmed in b\' 
great wooded ridges which kept falling Ijchiiid, their places to be filled by 
new ones at every turn. The stream made its noisy way over its rough 
bed, and ever\' now and then a freight train would go ])anting up the grade 
toward the Hoosac Tunnel, or a passenger train in swifter flight would sweep 
around the curve and hurr}' away to the world beyond. 

A little off the road in one place was a log house, a sight so unusual 
in old Massachusetts that such rare ones as one may come across always 
have a special air of romance and interest about them. This had a pleasant 
situation on a level, scooped out by nature from the lofty ridge which over- 
shadowed it. It was made of straight, small logs, laid up cob-fashion, chinked 
with pieces of boards and made snugger with plaster on the inside. It had 
a steep roof of overlapping boards, through which a length of rusty stove- 
pipe reached upwards and smoked furiously. There was a spring before the 



THE NEIV ENGLAND COUNTRY 



73 



door, which sent quite a httlc stream of water through a V-shaped trough 
into an old tlour-barreh There were some stragghng apple-trees about, and 
behind the house a little slab barn. Inside was a bare room, floored with 
unplaned boards. There was a bed in one corner, a pine table in another, 
and a rude ladder led to a hole in the upper flooring, where was a second 
room. The only occupant then about was cooking dinner on the rusty 
stove. Light found its way through two square windows and through certain 
cracks and crevices in the wall. 

I followed the rapid river, on, up among the wild tumble of mountains 
which raised their gloomy rock-ribbed forms on every side. The regions 
seemed made by Titans, and for the home of rude giants, not of men. 
Presentl}' a meadow opened before me, and across it la\^ the little village of 
Hoosac. The great hills swept up skyward from the level, and here and 
there in the cleared places you could see bits of houses perched on the 




AN OUTLYING VILLAGE 



dizzy slope, and seeming as if they might get loose and come sliding down 
into the valley almost any day. 

At the tunnel was a high railroad bridge spanning the river, a long 
freight train waiting, a round signal station, a few houses, and the lines of 
iron rails running into the gloomy aperture in the side of the hill. This 
was in a sort of ravine, and so somewhat secluded and holding little sug- 



74 



THE NFW ENGLAND COUNTRY 



gestion of its enormous length of over four miles. Some sheep were feed- 
ing on a grass}- hillside just across the track, and looking back upon them 
the\- made a very pretty contrast to the wild scenery. The hills mounded 
up all aljout; the sun in the west silvered the water of the rapid river; a 
train waiting below the iron span of the bridge sent up its wavering white 
plume of smoke; and here on the near grassy slope were the sheep quietl\- 
feeding. 

The road wound on through the same romantic wildness ; now a 
mountain would shoot up a peak steeper and higher than those surrounding; 




but none of them seemed to have names. As one of the inhabitants ex- 
pressed it, " They are too common round here to make any fuss over." 

In the late afternoon, after a hard climb up the long hills, I passed 
Monroe Bridge, where in the deep ravine was a large paper-mill. The road 
beyond was muddy and badly cut up by teams, and progress was slow. I 
expected to spend the night at Monroe Church, which I understood was three 
miles farther up, but I got off the direct route and on to one of the side 
roads. The sun had disappeared behind the hills and a gray gloom was 
settling down. The road kept getting worse. It was full of ruts and bog- 



THE NEV/ ENGLAND COUNTRY 



75 



holes. Like most of the roads of the region, the way followed up a hol- 
low, and had a brook by its side choked up with great boulders. I came 



fr 




THE OLD WELL-SWEEP 



upon bits of snow, and thought there were places where I could scrape up a 
very respectable "Snowball . 

After a time I met a team and stopped to inquire the way to the 
church, and the distance. The fellow hailed had a grocery wagon, and no doubt 
had been delivering goods. He seemed greatly pleased by my question ; in 
fact, was not a little overcome, showed a white row of teeth beneath his 
mustache, and he quite doubled up in his amusement. He said he did not 
know where the church was ; and he guessed I wasn't much acquainted up 
in these parts ; said he wasn't either. He stopped to laugh between every 
sentence. He apparently thought he was the only man from the outside 
world who ever visited these regions, and now was tickled to death to find 
another fellow had blundered into his district. There was no church about 
there, he said ; I must be pretty badly mixed up ; this was South Readsboro', 
"Vermont. " This is the end of the earth," he said. He kept on laughing as 
he contemplated me, and I got away up the road as soon as I could, while 
he, still chuckling to himself, drove down. 

The snow patches become larger and more numerous, and soon I 



76 



THE NEU^ ENGLAND COUNTRY 



came into an open and saw a village np the hill. This was October, 
and the sight ahead was strange and weird. The roofs of the buildings were 
white with snow ; there were scattered patches of it all about, and a high 
pasture southward was completely covered. It seemed as if I had left reali- 
ties behind ; as if in some way I was an explorer in the regions of the far 
north ; as if here was a little town taken complete possession of by the frost ; 
as if no life could remain, and I would find the houses deserted or the in- 
habitants all frozen and dead. There was a little saw-mill here and some 
big piles of boards ; everywhere marks of former life ; but the premature frost 
seemed to have settled down like a shroud on all about. I entered the 
village and found a man working beside a house, and learned from him 
that I had still three miles to travel before I came to the church. 

I took a steep southward road and led the horse, with frequent rests, 
up the hills. 



been fast gath- 
set colors had 
bright star 
west, and at its 
cloud mass 
from the hori- 
boring field s 




IN HAYING TIME 



Darkness had 
ering, the un- 
fa d e d , one 
glowed in the 
right a gloomy 
r e a c h e d u p 
zon. The ncigh- 
"ot more and 



more snow-covered, until the black ribbon of the mudd\' road was about the 
onl\' thing which marred their whitc-ness. There were rocky pastures about, 
intermitting with patches of woodland. Here and there were stifi" dark lines 
of spruce along the hilltops, and these, with the white pastures, made the 
country seem like a bit of Norway. Snow clung to the evergreen arms of 
the spruces and whitened the upper fence-rails, and the mudd}' trail of the 
road ceased in the crisp whiteness. 

I was going through a piece of woods when I saw a house aheatl 
with a glow of light in a window. I went past the friendly light. The 
dreary road still stretched on. No church was in sight, and I drew up and 
ran back to the house. A man came to the back door with a lamp. He 
said it was still two miles to the church, and I asked if I might stay over- 
night. Soon I had my horse in the yard and was comfortabl}- settled by 
the kitchen fire. The kitchen was large, but the long table, the stove, a 
bed, and the other furniture made it rather cramped when the whole family 



THE NEW ENGLAND COUNTRY 



77 



were indoors. There were grandpa, and grandma, and " Hen " and his wife, 
and " Bucky," and " Sherm," and " Sis," and Dan, and little Harry, not 
to mention a big dog and several cats. After supper, grandma fell to 
knitting with some yarn of her own spinning ; grandpa smoked his pipe and 
told bear stories; "Hen" mended a broken ramrod so that his gun mifTht 
be ready for a coon hunt he was planning; Mrs. "Hen" sewed; "Sherm" 
and " Bucky " were in a corner trying to swap hats, neckties, etc., and " Sis " 
was helping them; Dan ran some bullets which he made out of old lead-pipe 
melted in the kitchen fire; and Harr}' circulated all about, and put the cats 
through a hole cut for them in the cellar door, and climbed on the chairs 
along the walls, and picked away the plastering at sundry places where the 
lath was beginning to show through. 

Bedtime came at nine and I was given a little room partitioned off in 
the unfinished second story. In the first gray of the next morning a loud 
squawking commenced outside of so harsh and sudden a nature as to be quite 
alarming to the unaccustomed ear. Later I learned this was the flock of ducks 




THE STREAM AND THE ELMS IN THE MEADOW 



78 



THE NEIV ENGLAND COUNTRY 



and geese which had gathered about the house to give a morning sahite. 
The wind was whistHng about, and came in rather freely at the missing 
panes in ni}' window. As soon as I heard movements below I hastened 
downstairs. The two fellows in the bed in the unfinished part adjoining my 
room were still snoozing, and there were scattered heaps of clothing about the 
floor. 

There was no one in the kitchen, and though the stove lid was off, 
no fire had vet been started. I heard old Air. Yokes out in the back room. 




UNDER THE OLD SYCAMORE 



"'Bout time ye was gettin' up," he called to me. 

"Yes," I said, "I heard you stirring, and thought it must be about 
time to turn out." 

"Oh, it's you, is it? I thought 'twas one of the boys. They didn't 
bring in no kindlings last night." 

He sat down by the stove and went to whittling some shavings. He 
had not yet got on either shoes or stockings. One by one the rest of the 



THE NEIV ENGLAND COUNTRY 81 

family stragg^led in, and the fire began to glow and the heat to drive out 
the frostiness of the kitchen atmosphere. Outdoors the weather was threat- 
ening, and there were little drives of sleet borne down on the wings of the 




THE BROOK IN THE WOODS 



wind. After breakfast I concluded to leave this land of winter and followed 
down one of the steep roads into the autumn region of the Deerfield x'alley. 
Hy brisk travelling I succeeded by close of da}' in getting to the quiet 
meadows along the Connecticut. It had been a five days' journey. I saw 
only a little patch of New England, and the description is necessarily frag- 
mentar}' ; but at least there is presented characteristic phases of its nature and 
life as the traveller on a leisurely journey may see them. , 



82 



THE NEiV ENGLAND COUNTRY 



PART IV 



CAMPING AMONG THE NEW ENGLAND HILLS 

TT was a warm nii;ht of midsummer. In a secluded hollow of the Green 
■^ Mountain rant^es of lower Vermont was pitched a small white tent. A half- 
moon was shininij softly through the light cloud-hazes overhead, and had 
you been there, you could have made out the near surroundings without 
much difficulty. Tall woods were all about, but here was a little open 
where grasses and ferns and low bushes grew in abundance, and on a 
chance lex^el of the steep, uneven hillside the campers had pitched their 




THE HOUSE WITH THE BARN ACROSS THE ROAD 



tent. In the deep, tree-filled ravine close below was a stream, whence 
came the sound of its fretting among the rocks, and from a little farther 
up the solemn pounding of a waterfall. From the other direction came a 
different sound. It was the gentle clinking of a hammer on an anvil. 



THE NEW ENGLAND COUNTRY 



83 




A WARM SUMMER DAY 



On the farther side of the narrow strip of woods, which shut it from sight, 
was a farmhouse, and it was thence came the sound of hammering. 

The tent lias two occupants. They are both )'oung fellows, who had 
on the day pre^^ious started from their Boston homes for a vacation trip to 
the woods. In the cit}' they were clerks, — one in a store, the other in 
a bank. The chance that brought them to this particular spot for their 
vacation was this: a school friend of theirs, who was blessed (or perhaps 
otherwise) with more wealth than they, and who was next year to be a 
senior in Harvard, had informed them a few weeks previous that his folks 
were going to the Groveland House for the summer. This, he said, was in 
the centre of one of the prettiest and most delightful regions of all New 
England, and he urged his friends, Clayton and Holmes, to by all means go 
along too. He expatiated on the beauties of the place with such an 
eloquence (whether natural or acquired at Harvard, I know not) that these 
two gave up the idea of a trip they had been planning down the coast 
and turned their thoughts inland. 



84 



THE NEIV ENGLAND COUNTRY 



But when they came to study the hotel circular that Alliston gave 
them, and noted the cost of board per week, this ardor received a dampener. 

"Phew!" said Holmes, "we can't stand that. I don't own our bank 
yet." 

" No, we can't, that's a fact," said Clayton. " I'd want more of a 
raise in my pa}' than I expect to get for years before I could afford that 
sum. The dickens! I thought these countr\- places were cheap always — 



\S^> 




fs; 







'■:^ 




v'ORK IN HER OWN 



and here's a little place we've never heard of that charges more than half 
our big hotels here in Boston." 

"Well, we've got to give up that idea, then," Holmes said. "I suppose, 
though, we might find a ])lace at some farmhouse that wouldn't charge too 
high." 

"The trouble is," Clayton responded, "that I don't like to go ])oking 
off into a region where we don't know a soul, and take our chances of find- 
ing a comfortable stopping-place at the right price. Then, you see, it's 
"going to cost like anything getting there — just the fare on the railroad. I 
don't know as we ought to have considered the thing at all." 



THE NEIV ENGLAND COUNTRY. 



87 



" I hate to give it up," said Holmes. " We've seen a good deal of 
the shore, but have had hardly a sight of the country. It would be a 
great thing, for a change, to take that trip to Vermont. Now, why couldn't 
we try camping out? That's what the youngsters do in all the small boys' 
books I've ever read. We're rather older than the boys who were in the 
habit of doing that sort of thing in the books. But then, you know, that 
may be a good thing. It may have given us a chance to accumulate wis- 
dom sufficient to avoid those hairbreadth adventures the youngsters were 
always having. They are good enough to read about, but deliver me from 
the experience." 

"Harry," said Clayton, "I believe that's a good idea." 

The conversation and thinkings necessary to settle the details were 
many and lengthy, and I forbear 
repeating them. The long and 
short of it is that on Monday, 
August 14, in the earliest gray of 
the morning, they were on the 
train that was to carry them to 
the Vermont paradise they had in 
mind. 

John Clayton, as luck would evening 

have it, worked in a dry-goods 

house, and therefore in planning a tent he was enabled to get the cloth for its 
makeup at a trifle above cost. He and Harry made numerous visits to the 
public library on spare evenings and consulted a variety of volumes devoted 
more or less directly to the science of camping out. The amount of infor- 
mation they got on the subject was rather bewildering, but they simplified 
it down to a few things absolutely necessary to think of beforehand, and 
concluded to trust to commonsense for solving further problems. 

" Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof," said Harry, who at- 
tended Sunday school-regularly. 

The cloth used for the tent was cotton drilling. John's mother 
sewed the strips together under his direction, and their landlady allowed 
him to set it u[) in the little paved square of yard back of the block, and 
there he and Harry gave it a coat of paint to make it waterproof. The 
whole thing did not cost three dollars, and, as the boys said, " It'll last us 




THE NEW ENGLAND COUNTRY 




A LOAD OF WOOD 



a good many seasons." 
Aside from their tent 
they purchased a small 
hatchet, a ball of stout 
twine, a few nails, a 
lantern, and some tin 
pails, cups, and plates, 
and several knives, forks, 
and spoons. 

It had been a 
tjuestion just where their 
campin,L(-place should be. 
" We can't very well 
pitch our tent in the 
hotel yard," said Harry. 
" That hiL^'h-priced pro- 
])rietor wouldn't allow it, I'm sure; and, besides, we shouldn't want to." 

Another perusal of the summering-place circular disclosed the fact 
that it gave a list of the attractions of the region about, with certain com- 
ments thereon. Among the rest was noted a waterfall seventy' feet high. 
It was amid surroundings, so the circular said, exceedingly beautiful and 
romantic (whatever that may be). The boys thought that st\'le of place 
would suit them to a T, and Harry, who carried the circular about in his 
pocket, got it out at the bank the next day after this decision was arrived 
at and underscored this waterfall with red ink. 

In the late afternoon of August 14th the two were set down, "bag 
and baeeaee," at the forlorn little station which was the railroad terminus 
of their journey. To the left was a high sand bluff, half cut away, 
crowned with a group of tall pines. A little up the tracks was a deep, 
stony ravine where a little river sent up a low murmur from the depths. 
This was sjjanned by a high railroad trestle, and when the train rumbled 
away across it and disappeared around the curve of a wooded slope, the 
boys watched the curls of smoke fade into thin air and felt a bit home- 
sick. Beyond was a small freight-house, but no other buildings were in 
sight. It was a little clearing in the midst of the woods. The only path 
leading away was the road, which made a turn about the near sand bluff, 



THE NEW ENGLAND COUNTRY 



89 



and then was lost to sight. At the rear of the ilepot was a smart stage- 
coach, into which a group of people were being helped by a slick foot- 
man. This coach was an attachment of the Groveland House. " Were the 
young gentlemen bound for the hotel?" 

" No," said Clayton, " we're not going to the hotel. Isn't there any 
other coach? " 

" Oh, yes, but that leaves here at two o'clock. It has a long route 
through the different villages, over the hills, delivering the mail and other 
truck. If they waited for the four-thirty train they'd hardly get around 
before midnight." 

" We're much obliged," said Clayton, and the two went back to the 
front platform and sat down on their baggage. 

"We won't go up to that hotel if we have to pitch our tent here 
on the sand back of the depot," said John. 

The\' heard the coach rattle 
briskly away up the road, and the 
depot-master stamping around in- 
side. He came out presently, and 
after locking the front door ap- 
proached them. " I'^xpectin' some 
one to meet ye?" he asked. He 
was a stout figured man, with a 
smooth, round, good-natured face 
that won the boys' confidence at 
once. • 

" No," John said, " we don't 
know any one about here. We 
came on a little camping trip. 
You see in Boston there are 
horse-cars running every which way 
that take you anywhere )'ou want 
to go, and I s'pose we've got so 
used to them that we never thought 
of having any trouble in getting 
to the place we wanted to go to, 
though this is out in the country." 




A WATERFALL IN THE WOODS 



90 



THE NEIV ENGLAND COUNTRY 



"Oh, ye came from Boston, did ye? I kinder tlionght ye was city 
fellers. Gness ye'll find horse-cars in these parts about as scarce as hen's 
teeth — just about. Whare was ye thinkin' of goin', anyhow?" 

" We were going to Rainbow Falls." 

"Rainbow Falls? Well, now, you've got mc. I do'no' as I ever beared 
of 'em. Where be they? " 

Harr}' whipped out his circular. "Why, here they are," he said. 
" See ! right here under this heading, ' Nature's Attractions in the Drives 
about Groveland,' " and he pointed to the line underscored with red ink. 




/•/■ 








A PANORAMA OF HILLS AND VALLEYS 



The station agent set down the two lanterns he had in his hand and 
drew a spectacle case from his vest pocket. " Sho," said he, when he got 
his glasses adjusted, " ' Rainbow Falls,' so 'tis. ' Surroundings exceedingly 
beautiful and rheumatic' — er, no, it's n^mantic it says, I guess; the letters 
is blotted a little. Seventy feet high, it says. Well, now, I don't know what 
that is, unless it's the falls over at Jones' holler. The hotel folks have gone 
and put a new-fangled name onto it, I guess. There never's been any 
' rainbow ' about it that I've ever heared of." 



THE NEIV ENGLAND COUNTRY 



91 



"Is it a good place to camp out, should you think?" asked John. 
" Well, yes ; pretty good, if you like it," was the reply. " Now, if 
you fellers want to get up there to-night, there's sonic houses up the road 




A PASTURE GROUP 



here a few steps, and I presume ye can hire some one to get ye up there 
if ye want to." 

"How far is it?" Harry asked. 

" I should say it was five miles or something like that," said the man ; 
and he walked off down the track. 

" Now," said John, " we must wake up. I see no signs of houses, 
but we'll follow up the road." 

The result was that a short walk brought them to a little group of 
habitations, and they accosted a farmer boy who was weeding in a garden 
and made known their wants. He would take them up, he said, if his folks 
would let him. 

"How much w^ould you charge?" asked Harry. 

" Well, I do'no'," said the boy. " It's goin' to be considerable trouble, 
and it's a good five miles the shortest way, and hard travellin', too, some of 
the way. I should think 'twould be worth thirty-five cents, anyhow." 

" We'll pay you fifty," said John, " if you'll hurry up with your team." 



92 THE NEIV ENGLAND COUNTKY 

" I'll have to ask ma first," the boy replied. 

He went to the house, and the two outside heard a low-toned con- 
versation, and a woman looked out at them from behind some half-closed 
blinds. Then out came Jimmy with a rush and said he could go. Ke took 
pains to get his hoe from the garden, which he cleaned by rubbing off the 
dirt with his bare foot before hanging it up. 

"Have ye got much luggage?" he asked. "'Cause if ye have we 
c'n take the rack wagon. The express wagon's better, though, if ye haven't 
got much. That old rack's pretty heavy." 

The lighter vehicle, which proved to be a small market wagon, was 
plent}' large enough, and into that was hitched the stout farm-horse, and 
the three boys clambered up to the seat. 

" Git up ! " cried Jimmy, cracking his whip, and away they rattled 
down to the depot. 

" Now," said Jimmy, " they's two ways of gettin' where you want to 
go. and when you get there they's two places where you can go to. The 
road over Haley's Hill is the nearest, but it's so darn steep I'd about as 
soon drive up the side of a meeting-house steeple." 

" Then you'd rather go the other road, I suppose." 

"Well, I do'no' ; that's considerable more roundabout." 

" You can do as you please," said John. " We'll risk it, if you will." 

" I guess I'll go over Haley's Hill, then. But I reckon you fellers'll 
get shook up some. 'Tain't much more'n a wood-road, and they's washouts 
on the downhill parts and bog-holes where its level that they've dumped 
brush and stuff into. You'll have to walk up the steep parts. Don't ycni 
want something to eat?" he then asked. "I brought along a pocketful of 
gingerbread, 'cause I knew I shouldn't get home till after dark. Here," 
and he pulled out a handful of broken fragments, " better have some." 

"Thank you," said John; "but we had a rather late lunch on the 
cars, and I don't think we'll eat again till we get the tent pitched. What 
was it you said about there being two places up there we could go to?" 

The boy took a mouthful of gingerbread, and when he got the pro 
cess of mastication well under wa}' he responded, " Well, there's Jules', and 
there's Whitcomb's. Jules' is on one side of the brook and Whitcomb's is 
on the other. Jules is the Frenchman, ye know." 

"Which place is best?" 



THE NEJV ENGLAND COUNTRY 



95 



" I do'no' 'bout that. Whitcomb's is the nearest." 

"We'll try the nearest place, I think." 

" I guess we'd better tumble out now," said the boy. " We're gettin' 
on to Haley's Hill, and old Bill's gettin' kinder tuckered. Hold on ! don't 
jump out now. I'll stop on the ne.xt thank-you-marm." 

He pulled in his steed just as the wheels went over a slight ridge 
that ran across the road, and the three alighted. They were in the dusk of 
a tall wood of beech and birches that was almost gloomy, so thick were 
the trees and so shut out the 
light. The road increased in 
roughness and in steepness, 
and finally the boy at the 
horse's head called out, " I 
say, I guess you fellers better 
push behind there. Bill can't 
hardly move the thing, and he 
kinder acts as if he was goin' 
to lay down." 

The campers made haste 
to give their support, and the 
caravan went jolting and pant- 
ing up the slope till the leader let fall the bridle-rein and announced: 
"There, we're over the worst of it. Now, if I can find a good soft stone 
to set on we'll rest a minute, and then we'll fire ahead again, and I'll get 
ye to Whitcomb's in less'n no time." 

Jimmy found a bowlder to his mind and began to draw on his stores 
of gingerbread again. The horse nibbled the bushes at the roadside. The 
campers took each a wagon wheel and leaned on that and waited. 

" I guess we might get in now," said the boy, rising and brushing the 
crumbs off his overalls. "It's pretty rough ahead, but they ain't much that's 

steep." 

There were stones and bog-holes to jolt over, but after a little they 
came on to a more travelled way, and presently Jimmy drew in his horse and 
said, "This is Whitcomb's house right here. That's his dog at the gate 
barkin' at us." 

John went to the front door and rapped. He got no response, and 




A PASTURE GATE 



96 



THE NEW ENGLAND COUNTRY 



concluded from the grasses and weeds that grew about and before it that 
front-door visiting was a rare thing at that house. A narrow, flagged walk 
ran past the corner to the rear. He followed it, and in an open doorway 
of the L found Mr. Whitcomb reading a paper. 








A ROAD BY THE STREAM 



" A friend and myself would like to camp over in your pasture for 
a few days, if you don't object," said John. 

" All right, go ahead," said the farmer. " If }'ou behave yourselves, and 
put up the bars after ye so't the cows won't git out I ain't no objections." 

"Thank you," said John. "We'll try to do that. Have you milk to 
sell? We'd like to buy a couple of quarts or so a day." 

The man turned his head toward the kitchen. " Ann," he said, " how 
is that — can ye spare any?" 

A tall, thin-faced woman came to the door. She carried a baby in 
her arms. "I don't think we have any milk to spare," she replied. "We 
raise calves, because I ain't well enough to tend to the milk and make 
butter, and they drink about all we have. And I have two children, and 
the oldest ain't much more'n a baby, and they have to have some. We'd 
like to accommodate vou, but I don't see how we can." 



THE NEW ENGLAND COUNTRY 



97 



"It's all right," John replied; "we will find some other place for our 
milk supply." 

He returned to the team and they drove through a wide, rocky mous- 
ing lot till they came to a stone wall which was without a break, and en- 
tirely blocked the way. A pasture lay beyond. 

" The falls," said Jimmy, " arc right over in them woods t'other side 
of this pasture. If 'twasn't for this pesky stone wall I'd drive right over 
there with ye. We'd 'a' done better to 'a' gone to Jules'. His place is only 
a little ways straight over here, but it's a mile and more by the road." 

" Well, we've travelled far enough for one day," said Harry. " Let's 
get our tent over into the pasture and pitch it there." 

"Agreed." said John. "The sky has been cloudy all the afternoon, 
and it looks more like rain than ever now. I shan't feel easy till we get 
a roof over our heads." 

The)- tumbled their bundles over the fence and made their driver 
happy with a half-dollar, with which he drove whistling away. He, however. 




AT THE PASTURE GATE 



informed them that " he guessed likely he'd get up to see 'em in a few 
days, if they didn't get sick of camping before that and clear out.' 

The campers dragged their bundles over to a low beech-tree a few 
rods distant, and beneath its spreading branches proceeded to erect their 



98 



THE NEIV ENGLAND COUNTRY 



tent. Poles and pegs they cut in a thicket near by. Their chief trouble 
was the lack of a spade to make holes for the end poles in the hard 
earth. But they made the hatchet do the work, though the fine edge they 
hatl taken pains to put on it before leaving Boston disappeared in the 
process. 

After the tent was up they got their things into it and spread their 
bedding. The ne.xt thing was to hunt up a sirring to serve as a water-supply. 

"You get out a lunch," said John, "and I'll (ill this tin pail with water." 




".*«^« 




THE SHEEP PASTURE 



That was easier said than done. He stumbled about in the dusk 
over the rough pasture-land with its tangle of ferns and hardback bushes, and 
the best he could do was to get a couple of pints of fairly clean water 
from a rocky mud-hole. Afterward he scooped the hollow deeper with his 
hands, hoping it would soon fill with clear water. 

At the tent Marr)- had the lunch spread and had lit their lantern. 

"Do you know what time it is?" he asked. "It's half-past eight. 
If we'd had an)- farther to go we'd have been in a fix. Is that all the 
water you could get? I'm dry as a desert. 

" I'll get more after supper," said John. " I've tumbled half over the 
pasture and I can't find anj'thing but bog-holes." 



THE NEiV ENGLAND COUNTRY 



99 






After eating, both went out, Harry with the lantern, John with two 
pails. The clouds overhead had thinned and the stars twinkled through in 
places. The lantern with its two attendant figures went zigzagging over the 
lonel}- pasture waste to the water-hole. It had not yet cleared, but they 
skimmed off enough with a pail-cover to slake their thirst. Idiey did not 
say much as they wended their way back to the tent, but both had the 
feeling that camping out was proving a rather severe experience of pioneer- 
ing. 

" I'm dead tired," said Harry, as he flung himself down on the 
bedding inside. Let's turn in for the night." 

A few minutes later Farmer Whitcomb, glancing across the field, saw 
the soft glow of the lantern through the canvas walls of the tent disappear, 
and remarked, "Well, they get to bed early for city folks, but I've always 
thought myself nine o'clock was about the right time." He cleared his 
throat, looked up to the sky to get a hint of to-morrow's weather prospects, 
and went in and locked the door. Soon his light, too, was out. 

The last sound the campers heard was the wind fluttering through 
the beech leaves in the tree above. It was a great change from the city 
noises and surroundings with which they were familiar. 



lOO 



THE NEW ENGLAND COUNTRY 



On the following morning the campers were out at sun-up. Harry 
went over to their particular mud-hole and succeeded in scooping up a pail- 
ful of water, but he had not gone five steps before his foot slipped on a 
dewy hummock and the pail went flying. He returned to the original source 
of water-supply, but there was no chance of getting more just then, and the 




husking-t:me 



result was he wended his way across the fields and filled his pail at the 
Whitcomb well-sweep. 

"It's no use," he said on his return, "we've got to get nearer water. 
If matters go on as they've begun we'll waste half our vacation over this 

one thing." 

"Well, we'll look around after breakfast." said John. "I've been 
trying to make a fire, but everything's so soaked with dew you can't make 
anything burn. I wonder if they always have such dews up here. It's just 
as if we'd had a heavy rain. We'll have to get in our firewood the night 
beforehand." 

"It's a cold bite again this morning, is it?" said Harry. "I tell you, 
we've got to study up this matter. We must reform some way. Why, we're 



THE NEIV ENGLAND COUNTRY 



lOI 



getting right down to barbarism. By the way, how d'you sleep last 
night? " 

" First-rate," John replied ; " don't remember a thing, only I feel a 
little sore in spots this morning." 

"That's it," said Harr\'; "same way with me. Feel's if Fd had 
a good licking. Now, see here." He rolled down the bedclothes and 
exposed the ground. " See those humps? There's a stone sticking up. Here's 
another. There's a stub where some little tree has been cut off, and there 
several sticks and natural hummocks of the earth thrown in besides. Why, 
the worst savage, unless he was drunk, would be ashamed to use such 
a bed." 

" Well," said John, " let us be thankful that we've come through the 
thrilling experiences that we have so far met with alive ; to-day we'll hustle 
around and find a new camping-ground, and in the future we'll live in 
a style properly becoming to our dignity as members of Bostonian civiliza- 
tion, etc. But, come now, you've been regarding that bed of torture long 
enough. Trials past are only so many myths and shadows. At any rate, 
that's what Solomon or some other wise fellow has said. What you want 




SUNLIGHT AND SHADOW 



102 THE NEIV ENGLAND COUNTRY 

to do is to fortifx' \'ourself for trials to come. Supposing we go over and 
see this Jules after breakfast." 

" I found out how to get there from our landlord when I went over 
for water," said Harry. 'There's a side road that leads down to a little 
grist-mill just above here, and at the mill there's a foot-bridge across the 
stream." 

" Good ! " said jolin ; and after breakfast our campers went down to 
the mill, which, with the placid pond above, was completely closed in by 
the green masses of the forest. It was a gray little building, with mossy 
shingles, and broken windows and doors. There were boards missing here 
and there from its sides, and it was so old and rude it seemed a wonder 
it did not slide down the precipice it half overhung. It had not been 
used for some time — that was plain. Below it was a steep, irregular fall 
of rocks over which thin streams of water were tumbling. Across the 
ravine, at the summit of the clift^ was a low dam ; but it leaked badly, and 
the water did not reach its to[) by some inches. Midway in the stream, 
at the dam, was a rocky island where grew a few stunted pines. A foot- 
bridge crossed to it from a lower door of the mill. Thus it was necessary 
to climb to the top of the island cliff, where another bridge swung high up 
over the narrow ravine to the farther shore. 

The boys poked about the mill and the pond for some time and then 
crossed the bridges. But they were no sooner across than John exclaimed, 
" How that thing did sway and crack ! I'd walk ten miles before I'd cross 
that rotten plank again." 

" So would I," said Harry. " It fairly made my hair stand on end, 
A fellow wouldn't be good for much after he'd tumbled down into a 
ravine as deep and rocky as that, I guess. The waterfall must be close by 
here. I can hear it. But let's hunt up Jules first. His last name is La 
Fay, so Whitcomb said." 

A faintly marked path led away through the woods, and the two 
followed it. Some distance beyond it opened into a highway. They saw 
no signs of habitations, but they followed the road until they met an ox- 
cart. 

"Can you tell us where Mr. La Fay lives?" asked John of the 
young man who was guiding the slow team. 

" Yes," said he, " you take a narrer little road that turns off into 



THE NEW ENGLAND COUNTRY 



105 



the woods clown here a piece. You don't live round in these parts, do 
ye? " 

" No," replied John. 

" I don't belong around here either, and I'm mighty glad of it." 

"Why, what's the matter?" John asked. 

" It's so darn lonesome. That's what's the matter. Xothin' but woods, 
with now and tnen a farm kinder lost in it. Nothin' goin' on. h>verything 
dragfsin' along slow as this okl ox-team. I've hired out to Deacon Hawes 




THE VILLAGE ON THE HILL 



for the season, but I shan't stay more'n my time out. You're campin' up 
round here, ain't ye? Allen's boy brought ye up last night, so I heard. 
Mebbe I'll drop in and see ye this evenin'. We've got some sweet-corn 
just ripenin' down at the place that might taste good to ye." 

The campers told him they would be glad to see him, and said 
that they expected to be near La Fay's, at the falls. They took the road 
he had indicated. It led through a dense young forest. The trees inter- 
wove their branches overhead so closely that the sunshine with difficulty 
penetrated the foliage to fleck the damp depths below with its patches of 
lieht. A short walk brouijht them out of the woods into a good-sized 



io6 



THE NEW ENGLAND COUNTRY 



clcarin;^ sloping down into a wooded vaUev. Down the hill was a loni,^, 
squarish house, one end entirely unfinished, and brown with age and decay. 
The rest had at sonic remote period been painted white. In front was a 
row of maples, beneath which a calf was tied. Opposite the house was a 
weatherworn barn, and behind it a small shed with a chimney at one end. 
The big barn-doors were open, and Mr. La Fay was just rolling out his 
hay-wagon. He was apparently about thirty-five years of age — a handsome, 
powerfuU}- built man, square headed and strong jawed. He wore a mustache, 
had dark, curl\- hair, and a pair of clear, gra\- eyes, which looked straight 
at one and that held sparks which could easily flash into fire. The boys 
stated their errand, and La La)' told them to choose any i)lace they pleased 
for their tent and go ahead. He could furnish them milk, and a horse 
occasionally if the}' wanted to drive. 

" Vou arc close b\' the falls if you go over there beyond that piece 
of woods," he said ; " and from our hill here \-()u can see half the world." 

He took them out on the ridge beyond the barn. It was indeed a 




A MILL IN THE VALLEY 



THE NEIV ENGLAND COUNTRY 



107 



beautiful piece of country — mowing-lots and orchards and i)astures close 
about, a broken valley far below, where a little stream here and there 
glinted in the sunshine, and, bounding the horizon, many great, forest-clad 




r?- rj4»-',» ; fxif*?-: 



CLOUD SHADOWS 



hills. Here and there were far-awa)' glimpses of hilltop villages, of which 
La Fay gave them the names and the number of miles they were distant. 
The boys were delighted. 

" Now, the way for you fellows to manage," said Mr. La Fay, " is 
either to take my horse and wagon for your traps, or, if you haven't got 
too many, to lug them across the stream down here. You'll find an old 
road and a ford that you can wade across a little below the falls, if 
you're not afraid of getting your feet wet." 

" We'll try that way," said John. 

A little yellow dog which had been smelling around now began 
barking over something he had found a few steps down the hill. 

" What's he got now, I wonder," said La Fa\', going toward him. 



io8 THE NEW ENGLAND COUNTRY 

On the grass lay the remnants of a bii^^ turkey, about which the dog 
was sniffing excitedly. 

" That's ni)- gobbler," said La Fay. " A fox must hav^e got hold of 
him last night. Sec, back there where all those feathers are scattered about 
is where the fox jumped onto him. That's where he'd squatted for the 
night. Well, I'll have that fox one of these days. That little dog can't be 
beat for tracking. He's the best dog to start up partridges or hunt rabbits 
or an)'thing of that sort you ever sec." 

The boys asked if they might borrow a spade, and while at the 
barn getting it a little girl came running out to them from the house. She 
was perhaps eight or nine years old, a stout, vigorous little person, resembling 
her father closelx' in features. 

"That's the young one," said La Fay. "Have you got the dishes 
washed, Birdie? " 

"Yes," she replied, and then stood looking curiously at the 
strangers. 

" Slie does a good share of my housework for me," La Fa}- went 
on. " I do the washing and the butter-making myself, and I get a woman 
to help once in a while in baking and mending. I can make as nice 
butter as an\- woman in this count}'. Look at my hands. They're hard, 
but they're smooth and clean. A farmer's hands needn't be rough and 
rusty if he'll only use soap and v.'ater enough, and be particular about it. 
I work as hard on m}' farm as an}- man about here, and Fm often up 
half the night l)lacksmithing, but I don't believe there's a man in the town 
can show such hands as those." 

He looked toward the girl once more and continued, " The young 
one's mother ran away from her home two months ago. I never want to 
set eyes on her again. We didn't get along over-well together, sometimes. 
She had a temper, and 1 had a temper. I tell V'ou, I smoke, and I drink, 
and I swear like the Old Nick; but I don't steal, and I don't lie, and I don't 
get drunk. Mary was like me, only there were times when she'tl take too 
much drink. Then she'd flare up if I went to reasoning with her. The 
week before she left, she caught up a big meat knife she'd been using 
and flung it at me so savage that if I hadn't dodged quicker'n lightning 
'twould have clipped my head, sure. It stuck in the wall and the point 
broke off. Well, I must get to haying now; but come round to the house 



THE NHIV ENGLAND COUNTRY 



109 



any time. If Birdie or myself ain't there, you'll find the key to the back 
door behind the bh'nd of the window that's right next to it. Cxo right in 
whenever you please. I know you fellows are honest. I know an "honest 




A LOG HOUSE 



man when I see him. I'd trust )'ou with m)- pocket-book or anything. I 
don't care what church you go to, or if you don't go at all. I can tell 
what a man's made of by his looks. There's some folks that I wouldn't 
want to be on the same side of the fence with. I tell you, money and 
policy count for a great deal in this world. I despise 'em." 

He turned to the little girl and said, "Run in and get your hat 
Birdie, we must get in two or three loads before dinner, if we can." 



no 



THE NEW ENGLAND COUNTRY 



The campers with their spade went through the strip of woods La 
Fa\' had indicated, and found a pretty l^it of pasture beyond. The falls were 
in plain hearing in the ravine below, and they found a little level just suited 
for the tent, and not far fiway a fine spring of clear, cold water. Lastly, 
they noticed that one corner of the lot was a briery tangle of blackberry 
vines that hung heavy with ripe berries. This they thought an undoubted 
paradise — every delight at their tent door. First they ate their fill of berries. 





A FARM-YARD GROUP 



and then went down into the hollow. The bed of the stream was strewn 
with great bowlders. Around towered the full-leaved trees. \ little above 
was the fall, making its long tumble down a narrow cleft of the rock}' wall. 
The boys made a crossing by jumping from rock to rock in the bed 
of the stream. Below, they found the ford and the old road, and went up 
the path and across the pasture to their tent. It was something of a task 
getting their traps over to the new camping-place, but by noon the white 
canvas was again in place and they had dinner. By aid of the spade they 
gave the end poles of the tent a firm setting, and they dug a trench on 
the uphill side of the camp to protect them from overflow in case of rain. 



THE NEIV ENGLAND COUNTRY 



III 



I will not attempt to more than 
catalogue their doings for the next few 
days. That afternoon they took a long 
tramp to the village to lay in fresh 
food supplies. They returned at dusk, 
and found the young man whom they 
had met with the ox-team that morn- 
ing, at the tent door with a bag of 
sweet-corn. He assisted them in mak- 
ing a fire, and they had a grand feast 
for supper. The next day, which was 
Wednesday, they took a long drive 
over the hills to points of interest that 
La Fay told them about. Thursday 
was reserved for a trouting expedition. 
Friday they drove over to the Grove- 
land House to see their college friend, AUiston. 

"Well, fellows," he said, "how do you like it?" 

"Splendid!" said the campers; "we're having a grand, good time. 
How do you get along here?" 

" It's rather dull times, 1 think myself," said AUiston. " We talk, 
and talk, and play 




ON A MOUNTAIN 



tennis, and have a 
grand performance ev- 
ery day or two over 
a drive or a clam- 
bake. But half the 
time I think we're 
making believe we're 
having a good time 
r a t h e r than really 
h a \M n g it. I have 
an idea, some way, 
that you fellows are 
getting the best of 
it." 



>./tf\?, /'.,: 





^i:?-<^K 



ONE OF THE GREEN MOUNTAIN FEAKb 



112 



THE NEIV ENGLAND COUNTRY 



Nearly every evening the campers had callers, and in their tramps 
and rides they made man)- interesting acquaintances. After lights were out 




i- 




AMONG THE BIG HILLS 



they usually heard the sound of the hammer and the wheezing of the bel- 
lows up at La Fay's little shop be\'ond the woods. 

Saturday morning came. The campers were still in bed, but they 
were awake. It had been a very hot night. 

" Poke your head out, will you, Harry, and see what the weather's 
going to be," said John. 

Harry loosed a tent flap and looked out. " The sun's shining," he 
said, " but the west is full of clouds and looks like a shower." 

" Well, let's not hurry about getting up. If we take the noon train 
for Boston we shan't get home much before midnight, and we may as well 
take it easy now." 

They continued napping. Half an hour later a gloom as of ap- 
proaching night settled down over the landscape, and there was a threaten- 
ing grumble of thunder in the skies. The waterfall in the hollow took on 
a strange wailing note, rising and falling with the wind, and the rustling of 
the leaves of the near woods seemed full of premonitions. The air began 
to cool and little puffs of wind began to blow, and the boys turned out 



THE NFJV ENGLAND COUNTRY 



113 



and poked around getting breakfast. Then came some great scattering 
drops of rain, followed by a mighty crash of thunder and a dazzling flash 
of lightning that seemed to open tlie flood-gates of heaven, and the rain 
came down in sheets. Tiie air took on a sharp chill, and the boys got on 
their overcoats. The wind increased in force and shook the tent menac- 
ingly with its mad gusts. The flashing of the lightning and the heavy roll 
of the thunder were almost continuous, and through it all sounded the hol- 
low mourning of the waterfall. 

" I tell you," said Harry, as he sat Crouched on a roll of bedding, 
" I haven't much confidence in our mansion for such occasions as this." 

He had hardly spoken when something gave way, and down came the 
tent, smothering him in 
wet canvas. It was some 
moments before the two 
could disentangle them- 
selves. They made un- 
successful attempts to re- 
jjair the wreck, but fin.dly 
had to be content to {)rop 
uj) the ridge-pole so that 
it would shed the rain 
from their belongings, 
while they secured an 
umbrella and scud through 
the storm to the house, 
which they reached half 
drenched. 

" The N'oung one " 
was sitting by the kitchen 
window. Her eyes were 
dilated and she looked 
frightened. She had her 
hands folded idly in her 
lap. That was unusual, 
for she was ordinarily 
very busy. ^ deserted hut in the woods 




114 



THE Nl'W RNGLAND COi^NTKY 



"You tlon't like these tlumtler-stornis, tlo \-ou ? " said Harry. 

Oh, she didn't mind tliem, she answered. 

" Where'.s your father?" Harry asked. 

" He went off down to the village before I got up. I guess he was 
going to get some flour." 

"Then you've been all alone in this storm," Harr>- said. 

She did not rejjly. 

A fire was burning in the stove, and the campers hung their wet over- 
coats behind it, and themselves drew chairs to the stove and sat with their 




CHARCOAL KILNS 



feet on the hearth. On the table was a [)ile of unwashed dishes. From 
the large room ne.\t to the kitchen came the sound of dripping water. 
There was a great pool on the floor in one place, and two or three pans 
were set about to catch the streams trickling through the ceiling. 

" This side of the roof always leaks when it rains hard," said J^irdie. 
" Papa's going to fix it when he has time. I never seen it rain like it 
does to-day." 

The shower was very heavy, but it did not last long. The clouds 
rolled away, and the sun shone down on the drenched earth from a perfect 
dome of clear, blue sky. Birds sang, and insects hummed and chirruped in 
the grasses, and the breezes shook little showers of twinkling water-drops 



THE NEW ENGLAND COUNTRY 



"5 



from the trees. The air was full of cool freshness and sunshine. It seemed 
to give new life and cheer to every living creature. The cann)ers were 
quite gleefid as they ran over to their tent after the storm was well 
past. 

" We'll just hoist the ridge-pole into place," said John, " and let things 
dry off, and then we'll pack up." 

The goods inside had escaped serious wetting, but they thought best 
to hang two of the blankets on some neighboring saplings. 

" What a racket the water makes down in the gorge," said Harry. 
" Let's go down and have a look at it." 

Everything was wet and slippery, and they took off shoes and 
stockings and left them at the tent. 

" I declare! " exclaimed John, as the\' approached the stream, "this 
is a big flood. There's hardly one of those big bowlders but that the 
water covers clear to the top. Mow mudd}' it is! and see the rubbish! A 




ROUGH UPLANDS 



man couldn't live a minute if he was to jump in there. How it does boil 
and tear along ! 

" Come on, let's go up to the dam," shouted Harry, endeavoring to 
make himself heard above the roaring waters. 

He clambered along over the rocks among the trees on the steep 



ii6 THE NEW ENGLAND COUNTRY 

bank, but he had no sooner got within seeing distance than he stopped 
short and called excitedly to John close behind him, "It's gone! It's gone! 
The whole thing's washed away, — dam, and bridge, and mill,- — all gone to 
smash. .Vnd see ! the gorge at the fall's all choked u[) with big timbers. 
See the water spout and splash about 'em." 

It was a grand sight — the mighty tumble of waters from the preci- 
pice above, foaming down into the gorge, then broken in the narrow, almost 
perpendicular, chasm into a thousand flying sprays, whence the mists arose 
as from a monster, steaming cauldron. And there the boys saw a rainbow 
which they had looked for in vain before. They stayed nearly an hour, 
fascinated by the turmoil of the Hood. 

" I suppose we've got to think about packing up," remarked John at 
last, with a sigh. 

" It's a pity we can't stay around here another week," said Harry. 

They climbed slowly up the wooded bank to the tent, pulled it to 
pieces, rolled all their belongings into snug bundles, put on shoes and stock- 
ings and went over to the house. As they approached they heard sounds 
of angry dispute. They turned the corner at the barn and stopped. La 
Fay was standing in the kitchen doorway. In the path before him stood a 
woman. She had on a pretty bonnet trimmed with gay ribbons. Over her 
arm hung a light shawl. Her face was thin, and there were blue lines 
beneath her burning black eyes. She stood sharpl)' erect. 

" Move on ! " thundered La Fay, " and never show yourself here 
again." 

" It's Mrs. La Fay," whispered Harry. " She's come back." 

" Jules ! Jules ! " said the woman ; and then her tones, either of excuse 
or pleading, dropped so low the boys did not catch the words. 

" We'd better go back," suggested John. 

" I say I want to hear no more," Jules continued fiercely. " The 
quicker you get off the premises, the better." 

The woman looked at him in silence a moment, then turned short 
around and walked with quick steps away. La Fay stood frowning, with 
clenched fists, in the doorway. In the farther corner of the kitchen " the 
young one " was crouched in a chair, crying. The boys had turned away, 
but the drama had come to a sudden termination and they approached 
aszain. 



THE NEW ENGLAND COUNTRY 



119 



La Fay saw thcni. " She's been back," he said ; " but I've sent her 
packiiiL^ again. She came early this morning while I was away. She was 
here through the storm." 

It was a painful subject, and John hastened to say tliat they had 
packed up read}' to go to the train. 

" My horse is out there by the barn hitched into my lumber-wagon," 




A PATH IN THE WINTER WOODS 



said La Fay, " but I'll change him into the carryall. I'll be ready inside of 
ten minutes." 

" All right, then," John responded; "we've got a little more to do to our 
bundles, and we'll be over there with them." 

At the edge of the woods they looked up the road leading away 
from the clearing, and just beyond sight of the house they saw the woman 
again. Her arms were about her head, and she was leaning face forward 
against a big chestnut-tree. Once she clasped her hands and gave a sudden 
look upward. Then she resumed the former position. 

The boys went down to their camp and did their final packing. 
The sunshine was becoming warmer. The wind was blowing more briskly, 
and it kept the grasses swaying and the leaves of the trees in a perpetual 
o-litter of motion. In the aisles of the wood a thrush was chanting its 



120 



THR NRIV ENGLAND COUNTRY 



beautiful song. From the hollow sounded the ncvcr-ccasing roar of the 
fall. 

La Fay appeared, bundles were packed into the carriage, and they 

were off. They had just entered the road leading to the highway, when 

Harry spied a shawl lying at the foot of a tall chestnut. " What's that ? " 
he asked. 

La Fay drew in his horse and Harr}- jumped out and picked it up. 
He handed it to La Fay. 

"Why," said the man, "that's Mary's. She must have dropped it." 




WINDY WINTER — ON THE WAY HOME FROM SCHOOL 



He laid it across his knee and said nothing for a long time. In- 
deed, the}' were more than half-way to the depot before he spoke more. 
Then he fell to stroking the shawl genth' with his right hand and said, 
"Mary ain't done right. I know it; I know it.* Poor girl! she's had a 
rough time since she's been away. I don't know but I ought to have been 
easier with her. And I like her still. I don't get over that, someway. I 
can't help it. If the past was blotted out, I'd do an\'thing for her." He 
spoke all this slowly and meditatively. 



THE NEIV ENGLAND COUNTRY 



121 



Suddenly he straii^rhtcned up. " Boys," he exclaimed, " I'll blot out 
the past so far as I can. I'll start new, if Mary will. I haven't been any 
too good myself. I know where she'll go to-day. I'll hunt her up on the 
way back." 

With this resolution made he became quite jovial and talked very 
cheerfully all the distance to the depot. "Boys," said he, as he .shook 
hands at parting, " I'm glad you've been up here. You're good fellows. I 
like to talk with you. Birdie, I know, will miss you a good deal, now 
you're gone. She told me only yesterday, ' I wish Mr. Clayton and Mr. 
Holmes would stay up here a long time, so I could learn to talk nice, the 
way the\^ do.' If you ever get around this way again be sure to come and 
see Jules the Frenchman." 

The train rumbled into the station at that moment, and the campers 
hastily bade a last adieu and were off. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



II II II 

009 746 849 7 




